THE  HIDDEN 

-SERVANTS- 

^ 

FRANCESCA 
ALEXANDER 


DUE 


1927  Tenth  Ave. 
Los  Angeles,  Calif, 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 


iHE  HIDDEN 
SERVANTS 

and  OTHER  VERY  OLD 
STORIES  •  Told  Over 
Again  by  FRANCESCA  ALEXANDER 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  STORY  OF  IDA," 
"ROADSIDE  SONGS  OF  TUSCANY/'  Etc. 


<BOSTO&(  •  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND 
COMPANY      .... 


Copyright,  1900, 

By  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
All  Rights  Reserved 


University  Press  •  John  'Wilson 
and  Son    •    Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


Introduction 


TO  those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  know 
Miss  Alexander's  pen  and  pencil  pictures  of 
Italian  peasant  life  the  very  name  of  Francesca, 
over  which  her  early  work  was  published,  car 
ries  with  it  an  aroma  as  of  those  humbler  graces 
of  her  adopted  people,  —  their  sunny  charity, 
their  native  sense  of  the  beautiful,  their  childlike 
faith,  —  which  touch  the  heart  more  intimately 
than  all  their  great  achievements  in  History  and 
in  Art.  For  those,  however,  to  whom  are  yet 
unknown  her  faithful  transcripts  in  picture  and 
story  from  the  lives  of  the  people  she  loves,  a 
word  of  introduction  has  been  asked ;  and  it  was 
perhaps  thought  that  the  task  might  properly  be 
entrusted  to  one  who  had  heard  The  Hidden 
Servants  and  many  another  cf  these  poems 
from  the  lips  of  Francesca  herself. 

Yet,  rightly  considered,  could  any  experience 
have  better  served  to  banish  from  the  mind  such 
irrelevant  intruders  as  facts,  —  those  literal  facts 
and  data  at  least  which  the  uninitiated  might  be 
so  mistaken  as  to  desire,  but  which  none  who 


INTRODUCTION 


knew  Francesca's  work  could  regard  as  of  the 
slightest  consequence  ? 

Imagine  a  quiet,  green-latticed  room  in  Venice 
overlooking  the  Grand  Canal  whose  waters 
keep  time  in  gently  audible  lappings  to  the  lilt 
of  the  verse,  —  that  lilt  that  is  apparent  even  in 
the  printed  line,  but  which  only  a  voice  trained 
to  Italian  cadences  can  perfectly  give.  Imagine 
that  voice  half  chanting,  half  reciting,  these  old, 
old  legends,  and  with  an  absolute  sincerity  of 
conviction  which  stirs  the  mind  of  the  listeners, 
mere  children  of  to-day  though  they  be,  to  a 
faith  akin  to  that  which  conceived  the  tales. 
Where  is  there  place  for  facts  in  such  a  scene, 
in  such  an  experience  ?  Or,  if  facts  must  be, 
are  not  all  that  are  requisite  easily  to  be  gleaned 
from  the  poems  themselves?  Why  state  that 
Francesca  is  the  daughter  of  an  American  artist, 
or  that  she  has  spent  her  life  in  Italy,  when  the  art 
ist  inheritance,  the  Italian  atmosphere,  breathes 
in  every  poem  our  little  book  contains  ?  Why 
make  mention  even  of  Ruskin's  enthusiastic 
heralding  of  her  work,  when  the  very  spirit  of 

it  is  so  essentially  that  which  the  great  idealist 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 


was  seeking  all  his  life  that  he  could  scarcely 
have  failed  to  discover  and  applaud  it  had  it  been 
ever  so  retiring,  ever  so  hidden  ?  Nor  does  it 
matter  that  the  Alexander  home  chances  to  be  in 
Florence  rather  than  in  Venice,  since  it  is  Italy 
itself  that  lives  in  Francesca's  work ;  nor  that 
she  is  Protestant  rather  than  Catholic,  when  it 
is  religion  pure  and  simple,  unrestricted  by  any 
creed,  that  makes  vital  each  line  she  writes  or 
draws* 

Yet  of  the  poems,  if  not  of  the  writer,  there 
remained  still  something  to  learn,  and  accord 
ingly  a  letter  of  inquiry  was  sent  her ;  and  her 
own  reply,  written  with  no  thought  of  publica 
tion,  is  a  better  report  than  another  could  give* 
This  is  what  she  says :  — 

"With  regard  to  this  present  collection  of 
ballads,  I  can  tell  its  history  in  a  few  words. 
When  I  was  a  young  girl  many  old  and  curious 
books  fell  into  my  hands  and  became  my  favour 
ite  reading  (next  to  the  Bible,  and,  perhaps,  the 
Dfoina  Commedta),  as  I  found  in  them  the 
strong  faith  and  simple  modes  of  thought  which 
were  what  I  liked  and  wanted.  Afterwards,  in 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 


my  constant  intercourse  with  the  country  people, 
and  especially  with  old  people  whom  I  always 
loved,  I  heard  a  great  many  legends  and  tra 
ditions,  often  beautiful,  often  instructive,  and 
which,  as  far  as  I  knew,  had  never  been  written 
down.  I  was  always  in  request  with  children 
for  the  stories  which  I  knew  and  could  tell,  and, 
as  I  found  they  liked  these  legends,  I  thought  it 
a  pity  they  should  be  lost  after  I  should  have 
passed  away,  and  so  I  always  meant  to  write 
them  down;  all  the  more  that  I  had  felt  the 
need  of  such  reading  when  I  was  a  child  myself. 
But  I  never  had  time  to  write  them  as  long  as 
my  eyes  permitted  me  to  work  at  my  drawing, 
and  afterwards,  when  I  wanted  to  begin  them, 
I  found  myself  unable  to  write  at  all  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes  at  once.  Finally  I  thought 
of  turning  the  stories  into  rhyme  and  learning 
them  all  by  heart,  so  that  I  could  write  them 
down  little  by  little.  I  thought  children  would 
not  be  very  particular,  if  I  could  just  make  the 
dear  old  stories  vivid  and  comprehensible,  which 
I  tried  to  do.  If,  as  you  kindly  hope,  they  may 
be  good  for  older  people  as  well,  then  it  must  be 


INTRODUCTION 


that  when  the  Lord  took  from  me  one  faculty 
He  gave  me  another ;  which  is  in  no  way  im 
possible*  And  I  think  of  the  beautiful  Italian 
proverb :  *  When  God  shuts  a  door  He  opens  a 
window/  * 

After  such  an  account  of  the  origin  and 
growth  of  these  poems  no  further  comment 
would  seem  fitting,  unless  it  be  that  made  by 
Cardinal  Manning  when  writing  to  Mr.  Ruskin 
in  J883  to  thank  him  for  a  copy  of  Francesca's 
Story  of  Ida.  He  writes :  — 

"It  is  simply  beautiful,  like  the  Fioretti  di  San 
Francesco.  Such  flowers  can  grow  in  one  soil 
alone.  They  can  be  found  only  in  the  Garden 
of  Faith,  over  which  the  world  of  light  hangs 
visibly,  and  is  more  intensely  seen  by  the  poor 
and  the  pure  in  heart  than  by  the  rich,  or  the 
learned,  or  the  men  of  culture." 

ANNA  FULLER. 


preface 


THE  OLD  STORY-TELLER 

/N  my  upper  chamber  here, 
Still  I  Itoait  from  year  to  year  ; 
Wondering  Vfihen  the  time  Ttoill  come 
That  the  Lord  Mil  call  me  home. 
All  the  rest  have  been  removed,  — 
Those  I  forked  for,  those  I  loved  ; 
And,  at  times,  there  seems  to  be 
Little  use  on  earth  for  me. 
Still  God  keeps  me —  He  knows  Ttohy 
When  so  many  younger  die  I 

From  my  Ibtndow  I  look  down 
On  the  busy,  bustling  town. 
But  beyond  its  noise  and  jar 
lean  see  the  hills  afar; 
And  above  it,  the  blue  sky, 
And  the  'tohite  clouds  sailing  by  ; 
And  the  sunbeams,  as  they  shine 
On  a  tborld  that  is  not  mine. 

Here  Itbait,  ^hile  life  shall  last, 
An  old  relic  of  the  past, 
Feeling  strange,  and  far  away 


PREFACE 

From  the  people  of  to-day  ; 
Thankful  for  the  memory  dear 
Of  a  morning,  always  near, 
Though  long  vanished,  and  so  fair  I 
Dewy  flowers  and  April  air  ; 
Thankful  that  the  storms  of  noon 
Spent  their  force  and  died  so  soon  / 
Thankful,  as  their  echoes  cease, 
For  this  twilight  hour  of  peace. 

But  my  life,  to  evening  grown, 
Still  has  pleasures  of  its  own. 
Up  my  stairway,  long  and  steep, 
Now  and  then  the  children  creep  ; 
Gather  round  me,  fohere  I  sit 
All  day  long,  and  dream,  and  knit ; 
Fill  my  room  Ifrtth  happy  noise  — 
May  God  bless  them,  girls  and  boys 
Then  sweet  eyes  upon  me  shine, 
Dimpled  hands  are  laid  in  mine  ; 
And  I  never  ask  them  Ttohy 
They  have  sought  to  climb  so  high  ; 
For  'twere  useless  to  enquire! 
'  Tis  a  story  they  desire, 


PREFACE 

Taken  from  my  ancient  store f 
None  the  frorse  if  heard  before  ; 
And  they  turn,  frith  pleading  looks, 
To  my  shelf  of  time- from  books, 
Bound  in  parchment  brown  frith  age. 
Little  in  them  to  engage 
Children's  fancy,  one  would  say  ! 
Yet,  frhen  tired  frith  noisy  play, 
Nothing  pleases  them  so  frell 
As  the  stories  I  can  tell 
From  those  pages,  old  and  gray, 
With  their  edges  from  away  ; 
Spelling  queer,  and  Woodcut  quaint, 
Angel,  demon,  prince,  and  saint, 
Much  alike  in  face  and  air  ; 
Houses  tipping  here  and  there, 
Lion,  palm-tree,  hermit's  cell, 
And  much  more  I  need  not  telL 

Then  they  all  attentive  frait, 
While  the  story  I  relate, 
And,  before  the  half  is  told, 
I  forget  that  I  am  old 7 
But  one  age  there  seems  to  be 

xiii 


PREFACE 

For  the  little  ones  and  me. 

What  though  all  be  ne<w  and  strange, 

Little  children  never  change  ; 

All  is  shifting  day  by  day,  — 

Worse  or  better,  tbho  can  say  ? 

Much  "toe  lose,  and  much  V&e  learn, 

But  the  children  still  return, 

As  the  flowers  do,  every  year  ; 

Just  as  innocent  and  dear 

As  those  babes  V&ho  first  did  meet 

At  our  Heavenly  Master's  feet. 

In  His  arms  He  took  them  all  : 

Oh,  'tis  precious  to  recall  — 

Blessed  to  believe  it  true  — 

That  V&hat  Itoe  love  He  loved  too  ! 


Since  the  time  Itohen  life  'toas  new, 
All  my  long,  long  journey  through, 
I  have  story-teller  been. 
When  a  child  I  did  begin 
To  my  playmates  ;  later  on, 
Other  children,  long  since  gone, 
Came  to  listen  ;  and  of  some, 
Still  the  children's  children  come  ! 


PREFACE 

Some,  the  dearest,  took  their  flight, 
In  the  early  morning  light, 
To  the  glory  far  away, 
Made  for  them  and  such  as  they. 
I  have  lingered  till  the  last ; 
All  the  busy  hours  are  past ; 
Now  my  sun  is  in  the  Jbest, 
Slowly  sinking  down  to  rest 
Ere  it  wholly  fades  from  view, 
One  thing  only  I  would  do  : 
From  my  stories  I  would  choose 
Those  f  t  would  grieve  me  most  to  losef 
And  would  tell  them  once  again 
For  the  children  'who  remain, 
And  for  others,  yet  to  be, 
Whom  on  earth  I  may  not  see. 
Here,  within  this  volume  small, 
I  have  thought  to  write  them  all; 
And  to-day  the  work  commence, 
Trusting,  ere  God  call  me  hence, 
I  may  see  the  whole  complete. 
It  will  be  a  labour  sweet, 
Calling  back,  in  sunset  glow, 
Happy  hours  of  long  ago. 


XV 


CONTENTS 

Introduction •    •  v 

Preface  .    *    *    . xi 

The  Hidden  Servants  ..** \ 

The  Bag  of  Sand    .    .    .    .    . 35 

II  Crocifisso  della  Providenza 49 

Angels  in  the  Churchyard 63 

The  Origin  of  the  Indian  Corn 7J 

The  Eldest  Daughter  of  the  King 89 

Bishop  Troilus .    .  JOJ 

The  Crosses  on  the  Wall J33 

Suora  Marianna 151 

The  Lupins «...  J75 

The  Silver  Cross J87 

The  Tears  of  Repentance     . .  J99 


Che  Ridden  Servants 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 

THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

A  SHELTERED  nook  on  a  mountain  side, 
<L\  Shut  in,  and  guarded,  and  fortified 
By  rocks  that  hardly  a  goat  would  climb, 
All  smoothed  by  tempest  and  bleached  by  time  — 
Such  was  the  spot  that  the  hermit  chose, 
From  youth  to  age,  for  his  life's  repose. 
There  had  he  lived  for  forty  years, 
Trying,  with  penance  and  prayers  and  tears, 
To  make  his  soul  like  a  polished  stone 
In  God's  great  temple ;  for  this  alone 
Was  the  one  dear  wish  that  his  soul  possessed, 
And  't  was  little  he  cared  for  all  the  rest. 

Nothing  had  changed  since  first  he  came ; 
The  sky  and  the  mountain  were  all  the  same, 
Only  a  beech-tree,  that  there  had  grown 
Ere  ever  he  builded  his  cell  of  stone, 
Had  risen  and  spread  to  a  stately  grace, 
And  its  shifting  shadow  filled  half  the  place. 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

Many  a  winter  its  storms  had  spent, 
Many  a  summer  its  sunshine  lent 
To  the  little  cell,  till  it  came  to  look 
Like  another  rock  in  the  peaceful  nook. 
Mosses  and  lichen  had  veiled  the  wall, 
Till  it  hardly  seemed  like  a  dwelling  at  all. 

'T  was  a  peaceful  home  when  the  days  were 

soft, 

And  spring  in  her  sweetness  crept  aloft 
From  the  plains  below  where  her  work  was 

done, 

And  the  hills  grew  green  in  the  warming  sun. 
And  in  summer  the  cell  of  the  hermit  seemed 
Like  part  of  that  heaven  of  which  he  dreamed : 
For  the  turf  behind  those  walls  of  flint 
Was  sprinkled  with  flowers  of  rainbow  tint ; 
And  never  a  sound  but  the  bees'  low  hum, 
As  over  the  blossoms  they  go  and  come ; 
Or  —  when  one  listened  —  the  fainter  tones 
Of  a  spring  that  bubbled  between  the  stones. 

But  dreary  it  was  on  a  winter's  night, 

When  the  snow  fell  heavy  and  soft  and  white. 

2 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

And  at  times,  when  the  morn  was  cold  and  keen, 
The  footprints  of  wolves  at  his  door  were  seen. 
But  cold  or  hunger  he  hardly  felt, 
So  near  to  heaven  the  good  man  dwelt ; 
And  as  for  danger  —  why,  death,  to  him, 
Meant  only  joining  the  Seraphim ! 

Poorly  he  lived,  and  hardly  fared ; 
And  when  the  acorns  and  roots  he  shared 
With  mole  or  squirrel,  he  asked  no  more, 
But  thanked  the  Lord  for  such  welcome  store. 
The  richest  feast  he  could  ever  know 
Was  when  the  shepherds  who  dwelt  below, 
Whose  sheep  in  the  mountain  pastures  fed, 
Would  bring  him  cheeses,  or  barley  bread, 
Or  —  after  harvest  — a  bag  of  meal ; 
And  then  they  would  all  before  him  kneel, 
On  flowery  turf  or  on  moss-grown  rocks, 
To  ask  a  blessing  for  them  and  their  flocks. 

And  once  or  twice  he  had  wandered  out 
To  preach  in  the  country  round  about, 
Where  unto  many  his  words  were  blest ; 
Then  back  he  climbed  to  his  quiet  nest. 

3 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

By  all  in  trouble  his  aid  was  sought ; 
And  women  their  pining  children  brought, 
For  a  touch  of  his  hand  to  ease  their  pain, 
And  his  prayers  to  make  them  strong  again. 

And  now  one  wish  in  his  heart  remained : 
He  longed  to  know  what  his  soul  had  gained, 
And  how  he  had  grown  in  the  Master's  grace, 
Since  first  he  came  to  that  lonely  place. 
This  wish  was  haunting  him  night  and  day, 
He  never  could  drive  the  thought  away. 
Until  at  length  in  the  beech-tree's  shade 
He  knelt,  and  with  all  his  soul  he  prayed 
That  God  would  grant  him  to  know  and  see 
A  man,  if  such  in  the  world  might  be, 
Whose  soul  in  the  heavenly  grace  had  grown 
To  the  self-same  measure  as  his  own ; 
Whose  treasure  on  the  celestial  shore 
Could  neither  be  less  than  his  nor  more. 
He   prayed   with   faith,   and    his   prayer   was 

heard ; 

He  hardly  came  to  the  closing  word 
Before  he  felt  there  was  some  one  there ! 
He  looked,  and  saw  in  the  sun-lit  air 

4 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

An  angel,  floating  on  wings  of  white ; 

Nor  did  he  wonder  at  such  a  sight : 

For  angels  often  had  come  to  cheer 

His    soul,    and    he    thought    them    always 

near. 

Happy  and  humble,  he  bowed  his  head, 
And  listened,  while  thus  the  angel  said : 
44  Go  to  the  nearest  town,  and  there, 
To-morrow,  will  be  in  the  market  square 
A  mountebank,  playing  his  tricks  for  show : 
He  is  the  man  thou  hast  prayed  to  know ; 
His  soul,  as  seen  by  the  light  divine, 
Is  neither  better  nor  worse  than  thine. 
His  treasure  on  the  celestial  shore 
Is  neither  less  than  thine  own  nor  more/' 

Next  day,  in  the  dim  and  early  morn, 
By  a  slippery  path  that  the  sheep  had  wornt 
The  hermit  went  from  his  loved  abode 
To  the  farms  below,  and  the  beaten  road. 
The  reapers,  out  in  the  field  that  day, 
Who  saw  him  passing,  did  often  say, 
What  a  mournful  look  the  old  man  had ! 
And  his  very  voice  was  changed  and  sad. 

5 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

Troubled  he  was,  and  much  perplexed ; 
With  endless  doubting  his  mind  was  vexed. 
What  — He?    A  mountebank?    Both   the 

same? 

What  could  it  mean  to  his  soul  but  shame  ? 
Had  his  forty  years  been  vainly  spent  ? 
And  then,  alas !  as  he  onward  went, 
There  came  an  evil  and  bitter  thought,  — 
Had  he  been  serving  the  Lord  for  nought  ? 
But  in  his  fear  he  began  to  pray, 
And  the  black  temptation  passed  away* 

Perhaps  the  mountebank  yet  might  prove 
To  have  a  soul  in  the  Master's  love. 
He  almost  felt  that  it  must  be  so, 
In  spite  of  a  life  that  seemed  so  low. 
Perhaps  he  was  forced  such  life  to  take, 
It  might  be,  even  for  conscience'  sake ; 
Some  cruel  master  the  order  gave, 
Perhaps,  for  scorn  of  a  pious  slave. 
Or,  stay  —  there  were  saints  in  ancient  days, 
Who  had  such  terror  of  human  praise 
That,  but  to  gain  the  contempt  they  prized, 
They  did  such  things  as  are  most  despised ; 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

Feigned  even  madness ;  and  more  than  one, 
Accused  of  sins  he  had  never  done, 
Had  willingly  borne  disgrace  and  blame, 
Nor  said  a  word  for  his  own  good  name ! 

In  thoughts  like  these  had  the  day  gone  by ; 
The  sun  was  now  in  the  western  sky : 
The  road,  grown  level  and  hot  and  wide, 
With  dusty  hedges  on  either  side, 
Had  led  him  close  to  the  city  gate, 
Where  he  must  enter  to  learn  his  fate. 

Now  fear  did  over  his  hope  prevail : 
He  almost  wished  in  his  search  to  fail, 
And  find  no  mountebank  there  at  all ! 
For  then  his  vision  he  well  might  call 
A  dream  that  came  of  its  own  accord, 
Instead  of  a  message  from  the  Lord ! 
A  few  more  minutes,  and  then  he  knew 
That  all  which  the  angel  said  was  true ! 

A  mountebank,  in  the  market  square, 
Was  making  the  people  laugh  and  stare, 
With  antics  more  befitting  an  ape 
Than  any  creature  in  human  shape ! 

7 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

The  hermit  took  his  place  with  the  rest, 

Not  heeding  the  crowd  that  round  him  pressed, 

And  earnestly  set  his  eyes  to  scan 

The  face  of  the  poor,  unsaintly  man, 

Alas,  there  was  little  written  there 

Of  inward  peace  or  of  answered  prayer ! 

For  all  the  paint,  and  the  droll  grimace, 

*T  was  a  haggard,  anxious,  weary  face. 

The  mountebank  saw,  with  vague  surprise, 
The  patient,  sorrowful,  searching  eyes, 
Whose  look,  so  solemn,  and  kindly  too, 
Seemed  piercing  all  his  disguises  through. 
They  made  him  restless,  he  knew  not  why: 
He  could  not  play ;  it  was  vain  to  try ! 
His  face  grew  sober,  his  movements  slow ; 
And,  soon  as  might  be,  he  closed  the  show* 

He  saw  that  the  hermit  lingered  on, 
When  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd  were  gone. 
Then  over  his  gaudy  clothes  he  drew 
A  ragged  mantle  of  faded  hue ; 
And  he  himself  was  the  first  to  speak : 
"  Good  Father,  is  it  for  me  you  seek  ?  " 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

"  My  son,  I  have  sought  you  all  the  day ; 
Would  you  come  with  me  a  little  way, 
Into  some  quiet  corner  near, 
Where  no  one  our  words  can  overhear  ?  " 

Not  far  away,  in  a  lonely  street, 
By  a  garden  wall  they  found  a  seat. 
It  now  was  late,  and  the  sun  had  set, 
Though  a  golden  glory  lingered  yet, 
And  the  moon  looked  pale  in  it  overhead. 
They  sat  them  down,  and  the  hermit  said : 
44  My  son,  to  me  was  a  vision  sent, 
And  as  yet  I  know  not  what  it  meant ; 
But  I  think  that  you,  and  you  alone, 
Are  able  to  make  its  meaning  known. 
Answer  me  then — I  have  great  need  — 
And  tell  me,  what  is  the  life  you  lead  ?  " 

"  My  life 's  a  poor  one,  you  may  suppose ! 
I  Ve  many  troubles  that  no  one  knows ; 
For  I  have  to  keep  a  smiling  face. 
I  wander,  friendless,  from  place  to  place, 
Risking  my  neck  for  a  scanty  gain ; 
But  I  must  do  it,  and  not  complain. 

9 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

I  know,  whatever  may  go  amiss, 

That  I  have  deserved  much  worse  than  this." 

To  the  hermit  this  a  meaning  bore 

Of  deep  humility,  nothing  more. 

So,  gaining  courage,  "  But  this,"  he  said, 

"  Is  not  the  life  you  have  always  led. 

So  much  the  vision  to  me  revealed; 

I  know  there 's  something  you  keep  concealed." 

The  mountebank  answered  sadly :  "  Yes ! 
'T  is  true :  you  ask,  and  I  must  confess. 
But  keep  my  secret,  good  Father,  pray ; 
Or  my  life  will  not  be  safe  for  a  day ! 
Alas,  I  have  led  a  life  of  crime ! 
I  Ve  been  an  evil  man  in  my  time. 
I  was  a  robber  —  I  think  you  know  — 
Till  little  more  than  a  year  ago; 
One  of  a  desperate,  murderous  band, 
A  curse  and  terror  to  all  the  land ! " 

The  hermit's  head  sank  down  on  his  breast ; 
His  trembling  hands  to  his  eyes  he  pressed. 

JO 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

"  Has  God  rejected  me  ?  "  then  he  moaned : 
"  Are  all  my  service  and  love  disowned  ? 
Have  I  been  blind,  and  my  soul  deceived  ?  " 

The  other,  seeing  the  old  man  grieved, 

Said :  "  Father,  why  do  you  care  so  much 

For  one  not  worthy  your  robe  to  touch  ? 

The  Lord  is  gracious,  and  if  He  will, 

He  can  forgive  and  save  me  still. 

And  as  for  my  wicked  life,  't  is  I, 

Not  you,  who  have  reason  to  weep  and  sigh ! 

Your  prayers  may  help  me,  and  bring  me  peace/' 

The  hermit  made  him  a  sign  to  cease ; 

Then  raised  his  head,  and  began  to  speak, 

With  tears  on  his  wrinkled,  sun-browned  cheek. 

"  If  you  could  remember  even  one 

Good  de'ed  that  you  in  your  life  have  done, 

I  need  not  go  in  despair  away* 

Think  well ;  and  if  you  can  find  one,  say ! " 

"  Once,"  said  the  mountebank,  "  that  was  all, 
I  did  for  the  Lord  a  service  small, 

And  never  yet  have  I  told  the  tale ! 

n 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

But  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  not  fail, 

A  few  of  our  men  had  gone  one  day  — 

'T  was  less  for  plunder,  I  think,  than  play  — 

To  a  certain  convent,  small  and  poor, 

Where  a  dozen  sisters  lived  secure 

For  very  poverty !  dreaming  not 

That  any  envied  their  humble  lot. 

There,  finding  the  door  was  locked  and  barred, 

They  climbed  the  wall  of  a  grass-grown  yard. 

Some  vines  were  planted  along  its  side, 

Their  trailing  branches  left  room  to  hide ; 

Where,  neither  by  pity  moved  nor  shame, 

They  crouched,  till  one  of  the  sisters  came 

To  gather  herbs  for  the  noonday  meal ; 

Then  out  from  under  the  leaves  they  steal  I 

So  she  was  taken,  poor  soul,  and  bound, 

And  carried  off  to  our  camping  ground. 

A  harmless  creature,  who  knew  no  more 

Of  the  world  outside  her  convent  door, 

Than  you  or  I  of  the  moon  up  there  ! 

A  shame,  to  take  her  in  such  a  snare ! 

"  But,  Father,  I  wished  that  I  had  been 
Ten  miles  away,  when  they  brought  her  in, 

J2 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

To  hold  for  ransom ;  or  if  that  failed  — 
Oh,  well,  we  knew  when  the  pirates  sailed ! 
We  knew  their  captain,  who  paid  us  well, 
And  carried  our  prisoners  off  to  sell. 
They  never  beheld  their  country  more, 
Being  bought  for  slaves  on  a  foreign  shore. 

"  But  oh !  't  was  enough  the  tears  to  bring, 
To  see  that  innocent,  frightened  thing, 
Looking,  half  hopeful,  from  face  to  face, 
As  if  she  thought,  in  that  wicked  place, 
There  might  be  one  who  would  take  her  part ! 
She  looked  at  me,  and  it  stung  my  heart. 
But  I,  with  a  hard,  disdainful  air, 
Turned  from  her  as  one  who  did  not  care. 
I  heard  her  sighing :  she  did  not  know 
That  her  gentle  look  had  hurt  me  so ! 

"  That  night  they  set  me  the  watch  to  keep ; 
And  when  the  others  were  all  asleep, 
And  I  had  been  moving  to  and  fro, 
With  branches  keeping  the  fire  aglow, 
I  crept  along  to  the  woman's  side,  — 
She  sat  apart,  and  her  arms  were  tied,  — 

J3 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

And  said,  —  't  was  only  a  whispered  word ; 
We  both  were  lost  if  the  others  heard,  — 
'If  you  will  trust  me  and  with  me  come, 
1 11  bring  you  safe  to  your  convent  home/ 
She  started,  into  my  face  she  gazed ; 
Said     she,    'I'll    trust    you  —  the     Lord    be 
praised ! ' 

"I  very  quickly  the  cords  unbound. 

She  rose ;  I  led  her  without  a  sound 

Between  the  rows  of  the  sleeping  men, 

Till  we  left  the  camp  behind ;  and  then 

I  found  my  horse,  that  was  tied  near  by. 

The  woman  mounted,  and  she  and  I 

Set  off  in  haste,  through  the  midnight  shade, 

On  the  wildest  journey  I  ever  made  ! 

By  wood  and  thicket  the  horse  I  led, 

And  over  a  torrent's  stony  bed,  — 

For  along  the  road  I  dared  not  go, 

For  fear  that  the  others  our  flight  should  know, 

And  follow  after ;  the  woman  prayed. 

I,  quick  and  cautious,  but  not  afraid, 

Went  first,  with  the  stars  for  guide,  until 

We  saw  the  convent,  high  on  a  hill. 

14 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

We  reached  the  door  as  the  east  grew  red* 

'  God  will  remember ! '  was  all  she  said ; 

Her  face  was  full  of  a  sweet  content. 

She  knocked,  they  opened,  and  in  she  went. 

The  door  was  closed  —  she  was  safe  at  last ! 

I  heard  the  bolt  as  they  made  it  fast  — 

And  I  in  the  twilight  stood  alone, 

With  the  lightest  heart  I  had  ever  known ! 

"  So,  Father,  my  robber  days  were  o'er ; 
I  could  not  be  what  I  was  before. 
I  wandered  on  with  a  thankful  mind, 
For  I  left  the  old  bad  life  behind, 
And  tried,  as  I  journeyed  day  by  day, 
To  gain  my  bread  in  an  honest  way. 
But  little  work  could  I  find  to  do ; 
And  so,  as  some  juggling  tricks  I  knew, 
I  took  this  business  which  now  you  see : 
'T  is  good  enough  for  a  man  like  me ! " 

While  yet  the  story  was  going  on, 
The  cloud  from  the  hermit's  face  had  gone ; 
And  if  his  eyes  in  the  moonlight  shone, 
They  glistened  with  thankful  tears  alone. 

J5 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

He  listened  in  solemn  awe  until 
The  mountebank's  tale  was  done ;  and  still, 
Some  moments,  he  neither  spoke  nor  stirred, 
But  silently  pondered  every  word. 

Then  humbly  speaking,  "  The  Lord,"  said  he, 
"  Has  had  great  mercy  on  you  and  me  ! 
And  now,  my  son,  I  must  tell  you  why 
I  came  to  speak  with  you — know  that  I 
Have  tried  with  the  Lord  alone  to  dwell, 
For  forty  years,  in  my  mountain  cell ; 
In  prayer  and  solitude,  day  and  night, 
Have  striven  to  keep  my  candle  bright ! 
And  there,  but  yesterday,  while  I  prayed, 
An  angel  came  to  my  side,  and  said 
That    I    should    seek    you,  —  and    told    me 

where,  — 

And  should  your  life  with  my  own  compare ; 
For  in  God's  service  and  love  and  grace 
Your  soul  with  mine  has  an  equal  place, 
We  both  alike  have  his  mercy  shared, 
The  same  reward  is  for  both  prepared. 
I  came;  I  sought  you  —  and  you  know  how 
I  found  you  out  in  the  square  just  now ! 

16 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

At  which  —  may  the  Lord  forgive  my  pride !  — 
At  first  I  was  poorly  satisfied. 
But  now  I  have  heard  your  story  through  — 
What  you  in  a  single  night  could  do !  — 
And  know  that  this  to  the  Lord  appears 
Worth  all  my  service  of  forty  years ; 
I  can  but  wonder,  and  thank  His  grace 
Which  raised  us  both  to  an  equal  place." 

"  But,  Father,  it  never  can  be  true ! 

What  ?  —  I  by  the  side  of  a  saint  like  you  ? 

Ah  no !    You  never  to  me  were  sent. 

'T  was  some  one  else  whom  the  angel  meant!" 

44  No !  Listen  to  me  —  'T  was  you,  my  son ! 

Our  Master  said  that  a  service  done 

To  a  child  of  His  in  time  of  need 

Is  done  to  Himself  in  very  deed, 

And  is  with  love  by  Himself  received  I 

So  do  not  think  I  have  been  deceived. 

But  keep  those  words  on  your  heart  engraved 

Of  the  humble  woman  whose  life  you  saved, 

God  ivttt  remember,  and  trust  His  care. 

He  will  not  forget  you  here  nor  there  I " 

2  J7 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

"  O  Father,  Father !    And  can  it  be 
That  the  Lord  in  heaven  remembers  me  ? 
And  yet  I  had  felt  it  must  be  true, 
For  the  woman  spoke  as  if  she  knew ! 
But  when  was  ever  such  mercy  shown, 
And  is  this  the  love  He  bears  His  own  ? 
Are  these  the  blessings  He  holds  in  store  ? 
Oh,  let  me  serve  Him  for  evermore !  " 

And  when,  at  the  close  of  another  day, 

The  hermit  wearily  made  his  way 

Up  the  mountain  path,  from  stone  to  stone, 

He  did  not  climb  to  his  cell  alone. 

The  mountebank,  still  with  wondering  face, 

Came  with  him  up  to  that  peaceful  place ! 

Together  with  thankful  hearts  they  went, 

Thenceforth  together  their  lives  were  spent. 

And,  ere  the  summer  had  reached  its  close, 

Another  cell  from  the  rocks  arose ; 

The  beech,  in  its  strong  and  stately  growth, 

Spread  one  green  canopy  over  both. 

On  summer  evenings,  when  shepherds  guide 

Their  flocks  to  rest  on  the  mountain  side, 

18 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

They  heard  above,  in  the  twilight  calm, 
Two  voices,  chanting  the  evening  psalm ; 
And  one  was  aged,  and  one  was  young, 
But  never  was  hymn  more  sweetly  sung ! 

In  love  and  patience,  by  deed  and  word, 

They  helped  each  other  to  serve  the  Lord, — 

Together  to  pray,  to  learn,  to  teach, — 

Till  a  deeper  blessing  fell  on  each. 

Their  souls  grew  upward  from  day  to  day ; 

But  he  who  farthest  had  gone  astray, 

Who,  lowest  fallen,  had  hardest  striven, 

Who  most  had  sinned  and  been  most  forgiven, 

Erelong  in  the  heavenly  race  outran 

The  older,  milder,  and  wiser  man. 

Two  years  he  dwelt  with  his  aged  friend, 

Then  made  a  blessed  and  peaceful  end ; 

And,  when  his  penitent  life  was  done, 

The  hermit  wept  as  he  would  for  a  son ! 

Ten  years  had  over  the  mountain  passed, 
Since  that  poor  mountebank  breathed  his  last, 
Helped,  to  the  end,  by  a  woman's  prayer, 
Ten  years ;  and  the  hermit  still  was  there. 

J9 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

Grown  older,  thinner,  with  shoulders  bent, 
He  seldom  forth  from  his  shelter  went. 
But  those  he  had  helped  in  former  days 
With  prayers  and  counsel,  in  thousand  ways, 
Were  mindful  of  him,  and  brought  him  all 
He  needed  now,  for  his  wants  were  small. 
And  happy  they  were  their  best  to  give, 
If  only  their  mountain  saint  would  live ! 
For  in  his  living  their  lives  were  blest ; 
And  if  he  longed  for  the  perfect  rest, 
Patient  he  was,  and  content  to  wait, 
While   God    should    please,  at    the    heavenly 

gate. 

Beautiful  now  his  face  had  grown, 
But  the  beauty  was  something  not  his  own,  — 
A  solemn  light  from  the  blessed  land 
Within  whose  border  he  soon  must  stand. 
Little  he  said,  but  his  every  word 
Was  saved  and  treasured  by  those  who  heard, 
To  be  a  blessing  in  years  to  come, 
When  he   should    be  theirs    no    more;     and 

some 
Who  brought  their  little  to  help  his  need, 

Went  home  with  their  souls  enriched  indeed ! 

20 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

One  autumn  morning  he  sat  alone, 
Outside  his  cell ;  and  the  warm  sun  shone 
With  a  friendly  light  on  his  silver  hair, 
Through    the    branches,   smooth   and   almost 

bare, 

Of  the  beech-tree,  now,  like  him,  grown  old* 
The  night  before  had  been  sharp  and  cold ; 
And  the  frost  was  white  on  leaf  and  stem 
Wherever  the  rocks  still  shaded  them, 
But  where  the  sunbeams  had  found  their  way, 
In  glittering,  crystal  drops  it  lay ; 
And  fallen  leaves  at  his  feet  were  strewn, 
Yellow  and  wet,  over  turf  and  stone. 

He  sat  and  dreamed,  as  the  aged  do, 
While,  drifting  backward,  he  lived  anew 
The  years  that  never  again  should  be. 
A  placid  dream  —  for  his  soul  was  free 
From  all  the  troubles  of  long  ago, 
The  doubts,  the  conflict  he  used  to  know ! 
Doubts  of  himself,  and  a  contest  grim 
With  evil  spirits  that  strove  for  him. 
Now  all  was  over ;  that  troubled  day 
Was  like  a  storm  that  had  passed  away. 

21 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  voyage  was  o'er ; 
His  ship  already  had  touched  the  shore* 
Yet  once  he  sighed ;  for  he  knew  that  he 
Was  not  the  man  he  had  hoped  to  be, 
And,  looking  back  on  his  journey  past, 
He  felt  —  what  all  of  us  feel  at  last ! 
And  his  soul  was  moved  to  pray  once  more 
The  prayer  he  had  made  twelve  years  before, 
Only  to  know,  before  he  died, 
If  he  were  worthy  to  stand  beside 
One  of  God's  children,  or  great  or  small, 
Who  served  Him  truly ;  and  that  was  all ! 

It  was  not  long  ere  the  angel  came, 
Who,  gently  calling  the  saint  by  name, 
Said :  "  Come,  for  thou  hast  not  far  to  go. 
One  step,  and  I  to  thine  eyes  will  show 
The  very  dwelling  that  shelters  now 
Two  souls  as  near  to  the  Lord  as  thou !  " 

The  hermit  rose ;  and  with  reverent  tread 
He  followed  on  as  the  angel  led. 
Where  a  single  cleft  the  rocks  between 

Gave  passage  out  of  the  valley  green 

22 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

They  passed,  and  stood  in  the  pathway  steep 
The  rocks  about  them  were  sunken  deep 
In  fern,  and  bramble,  and  purple  heath, 
That  sloped  away  to  the  woods  beneath ; 
While  far  below,  and  on  every  side, 
Were  endless  mountains,  and  forests  wide, 
And  scattered  villages  here  and  there, 
That  all  looked  near  in  the  clear,  dry  air. 
And  here  a  church,  with  its  belfry  tall ; 
And  there  a  convent,  whose  massive  wall 
Rose  grave  and  stately  above  the  trees. 
The  hermit  willingly  looked  at  these ; 
For  hope  they  gave  him  that  now,  at  least, 
Some  praying  brother  or  toiling  priest 
Might  be  his  mate ;  but  it  was  not  so  ! 
The  angel  showed  him,  away  below, 
A  slope  where  a  little  mountain-farm 
Lay,  all  spread  out  in  the  sunshine  warm, 
Along  the  side  of  a  wooded  hill. 
It  looked  so  peaceful  and  far  and  still ! 
And  when  his  eye  on  the  farmhouse  fell, 
The  angel  said :  "  It  is  there  they  dwell ! 
Two  women  in  heart  and  soul  like  thee. 
Go,  find  them,  Brother,  and  thou  shalt  see 

23 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

All  that  thou  art  in  their  lives  displayed." 
Before  the  hermit  an  answer  made, 
The  angel  back  to  the  skies  had  flown ; 
He  stood  in  the  rocky  path  alone. 

Along  the  broken  and  winding  way 
Between  the  heath  and  the  boulders  gray ; 
Through  lonely  pastures  that  led  him  down 
To  oaken  woods  in  their  autumn  brown ; 
And  o'er  the  stones  of  a  rippling  stream, 
The  hermit  passed,  like  one  in  a  dream ! 
As  though  the  vision  had  made  him  strong : 
He  hardly  knew  that  the  way  was  long. 

T  was  almost  noon  when  he  came  in  sight 
Of  the  little  farmhouse,  low  and  white : 
A  sheltered  lane  by  the  orchard  led, 
Where  mountain  ash,  with  its  berries  red, 
Rose  high  above  him ;  and  brambles,  grown 
All  over  the  rough,  low  wall  of  stone, 
And  tangled  brier  with  thorny  spray, 
And  feathered  clematis,  edged  the  way. 
Then,  turning  shortly,  a  view  he  caught 
Of  both  the  women  for  whom  he  sought. 

24 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

One,  spinning^  sat  by  the  open  door ; 
Her  spindle  danced  on  the  worn  stone  floor* 
The  other,  just  from  the  forest  come, 
Had  brought  a  bundle  of  branches  home, 
And  spread  them  now  in  the  sun  to  dry ; 
But  both  looked  up  as  the  saint  drew  nigh. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  the  spindle  stopped, 
The  branches  all  on  the  grass  were  dropped. 
He  heard  them  joyfully  both  exclaim, 
"The  Saint!  The  hermit! "  And  forth  they  came 
To  bid  him  welcome,  and  made  request 
That  he  would  enter  their  house  to  rest. 

But  when  a  blessing  they  both  implored, 
He  had  not  courage  to  speak  the  word. 
The  only  blessing  his  lips  let  fall 
Was  this :  "  May  the  good  Lord  bless  us  all, 
And  keep  our  hearts  in  His  peace  divine ! " 
With  hand  uplifted,  he  made  the  sign, 
Then  entered  in  (to  their  joy  complete !) 
And  willingly  took  the  offered  seat. 

And  soon  before  him  a  meal  was  spread, 

Of  chestnuts,  of  goat's  milk  cheese,  and  bread ; 

25 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

While  one  with  her  pitcher  went  to  bring 
Some  water  fresh  from  the  ice-cold  spring. 

He  could  not  taste  of  the  food  prepared 
Till  he  his  errand  to  both  declared. 
Said  he :  "  My  friends,  I  have  come  to-day 
With  something  grave  on  my  mind  to  say, 
And  more  to  hear ;  and  I  pray  you  now 
To  answer  truly,  and  not  allow 
A  feeling,  whether  of  pride  or  shame, 
Or  any  shrinking  from  praise  or  blame, 
To  change  the  answer  you  both  may  give, 
Of  what  you  are  and  of  how  you  live." 

Then  she  with  distaff  still  at  her  side, 
Of  speech  more  ready,  at  once  replied. 
In  years  the  elder,  but  not  in  face, 
She  kept  a  little  of  youthful  grace : 
The  dark  eyes  under  her  snow-white  hair 
Were  keen  and  clear  as  the  autumn  air  I 

"  We  are  but  what  we  appear  to  be: 
Two  toiling  women,  as  you  may  see ! 
And  neither  so  young  nor  strong  as  when 

26 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

In  field  and  forest  we  helped  the  men. 

We  now  have  only  the  lesser  care, 

To  keep  the  house,  and  the  meals  prepare, 

And  other  labours  of  small  account, 

Yet  something  worth  in  the  week's  amount. 

But  in  our  youth,  and  a  lifetime  through, 

We  laboured,  much  as  the  others  do ! 

Through  storm   and  sunshine   we  still   have 

tried 

To  do  our  best  by  our  husbands'  side, 
And  keep  their  hearts  and  our  own  at  rest 
When  sickness  came  or  when  want  oppressed. 
For  even  famine  our  house  assailed 
That  year  when  the  corn  and  chestnuts  failed. 
And  once — that  winter  ten  years  ago  — 
Our  house  was  buried  beneath  the  snow, 
And  ere  it  melted  and  light  returned, 
The  very  benches  for  warmth  we  burned! 
Nor  is  there  want,  in  our  busy  hive, 
Of  children  keeping  the  house  alive : 
For  she  has  seven,  and  I  have  nine ; 
But  three  of  hers  and  the  first  of  mine 
Are  safe  with  Jesus, — more  happy  they  1 
Two  more  have  married  and  gone  away. 

27 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

My  son's  young  wife,  with  her  infant  small, 
Make  up  the  household  —  fourteen  in  all/' 

44  In  this/'  he  said, 4t  there  is  much  to  praise : 

In  humble  service  you  pass  your  days, 

And  spend  your  life  for  your  children's  needs. 

But  tell  me  now  of  the  pious  deeds 

(For  such  there  are)  that  you  seek  to  hide, 

To  me  in  a  vision  signified !  " 

44  But,  sir,  we  are  just  two  poor  old  wives, 
Who  never  have  done  in  all  our  lives 
A  pious  deed  that  was  worth  the  name  I " 
She  said;  and  her  white  head   drooped  with 
shame. 

Then  said  the  other :  4i  And  yet,  't  is  true, 
We  help  in  all  that  our  husbands  do. 
When  twice  a  year  they  have  killed  a  sheep, 
'T  is  only  half  for  ourselves  we  keep; 
Our  poorer  neighbours  have  all  the  rest. 
And  this,  I  fear,  is  the  very  best 
We  ever  do ! "  "  And,"  said  he,  "  't  is  well ! 
But  think —  is  there  nothing  more  to  tell  ?  " 

28 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

They  both  were  silent  a  little  space, 
And  each  one  questioned  the  other's  face, 
Till,  doubtful,  when  she  had  thought  awhile, 
The  elder  said,  with  a  modest  smile : 
44  This  summer  have  forty  years  gone  by, 
Since  she  —  my  sister-in-law  —  and  I 
Together  came  in  this  house  to  dwell ; 
And,  Father,  it  is  not  much  to  tell, 
But  in  all  these  years,  from  first  to  last, 
No  angry  word  has  between  us  passed, 
Nor  even  a  look  that  was  less  than  kind. 
And  that  is  all  I  can  call  to  mind." 

Enough  it  was  for  the  hermit's  need ! 

He  rose,  like  one  from  a  burden  freed. 

44  Thank  God ! "  he  said ;  "  if  indeed  He  sees 

My  soul  as  worthy  and  white  as  these ! 

And  great  the  mercy  He  doth  bestow, 

That  I  should  His  hidden  servants  know ! " 

A  sudden  flash,  as  of  heavenly  light, 
Then  shone  within  him,  and  all  was  bright ; 
And  in  a  moment  were  things  made  clear 
Had  vexed  him  many  a  weary  year ! 

29 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

For  he,  who  had  thought  on  earth  to  view 
God's  people  only  a  scattered  few, 
Saw  now,  in  spirit,  an  army  great 
Of  hidden  servants  who  on  Him  wait. 
No  saintly  legends  their  names  disclose, 
And  no  man  living  their  number  knows, 
Nor  can  their  service  and  place  declare. 
The  hidden  servants  are  everywhere  ! 
And  some  are  hated,  despised,  alone ; 
And  some  to  even  themselves  unknown* 
But  the  Father's  house  has  room  for  all, 
And  never  one  from  His  hand  can  fall ! 
The  one  brave  deed  of  a  desperate  man, 
Grown  hard  in  crime  since  his  youth  began, 
Who  yet,  for  a  helpless  woman's  sake, 
Had  strength  to  rise,  and  his  chain  to  break ; 
The  holy  sweetness  that  fills  the  heart 
Of  him  who  dwells  from  the  world  apart, 
His  life  one  dream  of  celestial  things, 
Till  almost  heaven  to  earth  he  brings ; 
Or  yet  the  humble,  unnoticed  life 
Of  toiling  mother  and  patient  wife, 
Who,  year  on  year,  has  had  grace  to  bear 
Her  changeless  burden  of  daily  care, — 

30 


THE  HIDDEN  SERVANTS 

Are  all  accepted  with  equal  love, 
And  laid  with  treasures  that  wait  above 
Until  the  day  when  we  all  believe 
That  every  man  shall  his  deeds  receive. 

And  when,  that  evening,  with  weary  feet 
The  hermit  stood  by  his  lone  retreat, 
And  watched  awhile,  with  a  tranquil  gaze, 
The  mountains  soft  in  the  sunset  haze, 
And  sleeping  forest,  and  field  below, 
He  said,  as  he  saw  the  star-like  glow 
Of  lights  in  the  cottage  windows  far, 
44  How  many  God's  hidden  servants  are  I " 


Bag  of  Sand 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND  was  written  by  St.  Heradius, 
who  visited,  some  time  in  the  fifth  century,  the  her 
mit  fathers  of  the  desert  and  mountains,  and  collected 
many  interesting  stories  about  them* 


Che  Bag  of  Sand 


TN  that  land  of  desolation 
•*•      Where,  mid  dangers  manifold, 
Lost  in  heavenly  contemplation, 
'Desert  fathers  dwelt  of  old, 

Lay  a  field  fohere  grass  'teas  growing 
Green  beneath  the  palm-trees'  shade; 
And  a  spring,  forever  flowing, 
Life  amid  the  stillness  made. 

There  a  brotherhood,  incited 
'By  one  hope  and  purpose  high, 
Came  to  dwell  in  faith  united, 
'Pray  and  labour,  live  and  die. 

cMighty  'teas  the  love  that  bound  them, 
Each  to  each,  in  that  foild  land, 
Where  the  desert  closed  around  them, 
One  dead  1»aste  of  rocks  and  sand, 

Saving  ^here,  to  rest  their  eyes  on, 
While  they  dreamed  of  hills  divine, 
'Blue,  above  the  low  horizon, 
Stretched  the  mountains'  foavy  line. 
35 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


There  could  nought  of  earth  remind  them, 
cA£or  disturb  their  dreams  and  prayers; 
They  had  left  the  world  behind  them, 
Felt  no  more  its  joys  and  cares. 

Far  from  all  its  foeary  bustle, 
Will  subdued,  and  mind  at  ease, 
They  could  hear  the  palm-trees  rustle 
In  the  early  morning  breeze. 

When  the  bell,  to  prayer  inviting, 
From  the  low-built  belfry  rang, 
They  could  hear  the  birds  uniting 
With  them  fohile  the  psalms  they  sang. 

From  the  earth  their  labour  brought  them 
All  they  needed  —  scanty  fare. 
Life  of  toil  and  hardship  taught  them, 
Though  at  peace,  the  cross  to  bear. 

This  is  all  their  record:    never 
Can  foe  hope  the  rest  to  know  I 
cH^ames  and  deeds  are  lost  forever, 
In  the  mist  of  long  ago; 


of  all  thai  life  angelic 
c^either  shadow  left,  nor  trace, 
Save  this  tale,  —  a  precious  relic, 
In  its  fotse  and  saintly  grace  I 
36 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


This,  above  the  darkness  lifted 
*By  the  truth  that  in  it  lay, 
On  the  sea  of  time  has  drifted, 
cAnd  is  still  our  own  to-day. 

Listen  to  it,  it  may  teach  us 
Wisdom,  'frith  its  'toords  of  gold! 
Let  this  far-off  blessing  reach  us 
From  the  desert  saints  of  old. 


T  TNDERNEATH  the  vines  they  tended. 
^•^     Where  the  garden  air  was  sweet, 
Where  the  shadows,  softly  blended, 
Made  an  ever  cool  retreat, — 

These  good  brethren  had  assembled, 
On  their  abbot  to  attend ; 
All  were  sad,  and  many  trembled, 
Thinking  how  the  day  would  end. 

Of  their  little  congregation 
One  who  long  had  faithful  been, 
Had,  beneath  a  sore  temptation, 
Fallen  into  grievous  sin. 

37 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


What  it  was  they  have  not  told  us, 
But  we  know,  whatever  the  blame, 
If  God's  hand  should  cease  to  hold  us, 
You  or  I  might  do  the  same. 

And  for  judgment's  wise  completing 
(Now  the  crime  was  certified  ), 
All  were  called  in  solemn  meeting 
On  the  sentence  to  decide. 

Much  in  doubt,  they  craved  assistance, 
Sent  to  convents  far  away, 
Even  to  that  fair  blue  distance 
Where  their  eyes  had  loved  to  stray. 

Fathers  learned,  fathers  saintly, 
Abbots  used  to  think  and  rule, 
Gathered  where  the  brook  sang  faintly 
In  the  shadow,  green  and  cool. 

Oh  the  beauty  that  was  wasted 
On  that  day,  remembered  oft ! 
Oh  the  sweetness,  all  untasted, 
Of  the  morning,  still  and  soft ! 

38 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


At  their  feet  the  water  glistened, 
Birds  were  nesting  overhead ; 
No  one  saw,  and  no  one  listened 
Save  to  what  the  speakers  said. 

Long  and  sad  was  their  debating, 
Voices  low  and  faces  grave, 
While,  the  gloomy  tale  relating, 
Each  in  turn  his  judgment  gave. 

"  Send  him  from  you ! "  one  was  saying 

Calmly,  as  of  reason  sure ; 

44  All  are  tainted  by  his  staying, 

Let  men  know  your  hands  are  pure ! 

"For  the  shame  and  sorrow  brought  you, 
Let  him  be  to  all  as  dead ! 
Harm  sufficient  has  he  wrought  you ! " 
But  the  abbot  shook  his  head. 

For  the  sin  which  had  undone  him, 
For  much  evil  brought  about, 
He  would  lay  a  burden  on  him, 
But  he  could  not  cast  him  out  1 

39 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


All  night  long  the  distant  howling, 
While  he  waked,  of  beasts  of  prey, 
Made  him  think  of  demons  prowling, 
Come  to  snatch  that  soul  away. 

Said  another :  "  I  would  rather 
That  his  shame  by  all  were  seen. 
Do  not  spare  him,  O  my  Father ; 
Let  the  blow  be  swift  and  keen  I 

44  Let  not  justice  be  evaded  I 
Keep  him,  bound  to  labour  hard, 
With  you,  but  apart  degraded, 
And  from  speech  with  all  debarred ! n 

This  the  abbot  not  refusing, 
Only  wondered,  while  he  thought, 
Was  there  no  one  feared  the  losing 
Of  a  soul  the  Lord  had  bought  ? 

One,  more  thoughtless,  recommended 
That  in  prison  closely  pent 
He  should  stay  till  life  was  ended ! 
But  to  this  would  none  consent. 

40 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


In  the  cell  where  first  they  closed  him, 
Shrinking  back,  as  best  he  might, 
From  a  window  that  exposed  him 
Sometimes  to  a  passer's  sight, 

He,  the  black  offender,  waited, 
From  them  parted  since  his  fall : 
Once  beloved,  now  scorned  and  hated 
By  himself,  he  thought  by  all ! 

Nothing  asking,  nothing  pleading, 
Speechless,  tearless,  in  despair ; 
But,  like  one  in  pain  exceeding, 
Moving  ever  here  and  there* 

Little  did  his  fate  alarm  him : 
What  had  he  to  fear  or  shun  ? 
What  could  others  do  to  harm  him 
More  than  he  himself  had  done  ? 

But  without  were  minds  divided, 
And  the  morning  wore  away ; 
Noon  had  come,  and  undecided 
Still  the  heavy  question  lay* 

4J 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


Though  they  looked  so  stern  and  fearless, 
Some  with  sinking  hearts  had  come,  — 
Hearts  that  wept  when  eyes  were  tearless, 
Pleaded  when  the  lips  were  dumb. 

One  who  had  that  morning  seen  him, 
Seeking  from  their  gaze  to  hide, 
Tried  from  heavy  doom  to  screen  him ; 
But  his  reasons  were  denied. 

He  of  other  days  was  thinking,  — 
Happy  days,  and  still  so  near !  — 
When  that  brother,  shamed  and  shrinking, 
Had  to  all  their  souls  been  dear. 

Others  tried  their  hearts  to  harden, 
Felt  their  pity  to  be  sin ; 
Silent,  prayed  the  Lord  to  pardon 
Kinder  thoughts  that  rose  within. 

Some  proposed  and  some  objected, 
While,  the  long  debate  to  end, 
One  old  Father  they  expected, 
And  on  him  would  all  depend. 

42 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


He  —  their  honoured,  best  adviser  — 
Dwelt  in  desert  cave  retired ; 
Older  than  the  rest,  and  wiser : 
Many  thought  his  words  inspired ; 

Said  he  knew  what  passed  within  them 
When  by  sin  or  doubt  assailed ; 
True  it  is,  his  words  could  win  them, 
Often,  when  all  else  had  failed. 

He  would  find  what  all  were  seeking, 
Justice  pure,  and  judgment  right ! 
Still  the  abbot,  seldom  speaking, 
Pale  and  sober,  prayed  for  light. 

Light  was  sent !  For,  toiling  slowly 
O'er  the  sun-baked  desert  road, 
Came  that  Father,  wise  and  holy, 
Bent  beneath  a  weary  load ! 

Scarce  his  failing  limbs  sustained  him, 
For  the  burden  sorely  pressed : 
Many  times,  as  though  it  pained  him, 
Would  he  stand  to  breathe  and  rest. 

43 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


One  who  watched  for  his  arriving, 
Went  and  told  them  he  was  near. 
Up  they  rose,  and  ceased  their  striving, 
In  their  joy  such  news  to  hear ! 

Then  they  all  went  forth  and  met  him, 
By  their  reverent  love  compelled : 
Nevermore  could  one  forget  him, 
Who  that  day  his  face  beheld ! 

Wasted,  worn,  yet  strong  to  aid  them ; 
Peaceful,  though  by  conflict  tried ; 
Shining  with  a  light  that  made  them 
Feel  the  Lord  was  by  his  side! 

But  it  grieved  their  souls  to  see  him 
By  that  burden  bowed  and  strained ! 
Many  stretched  their  hands  to  free  him, 
Wondering  what  the  sack  contained, 

"  Why  this  burden  ?  "  one  addressed  him ; 
44  All  unfit  for  arms  like  thine ! " 
He,  while  yet  the  weight  oppressed  him, 
Answered :  "  These  are  sins  of  mine. 

44 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


44 1  must  bear  them  all,  my  brother, 
Ever  with  me  while  I  go 
On  my  way  to  judge  another  I 
These  have  made  my  journey  slow*" 

Then  the  abbot,  growing  bolder, 
Raised  the  load  with  trembling  hand 
From  the  Father's  bended  shoulder ; 
Looked  —  and  found  it  filled  with  sand. 

Of  them  all,  there  was  not  any 
But  was  silent  for  a  while ; 
For  the  best  had  sins  as  many 
As  the  sand-grains  in  that  pile ! 

Then  they  heard  the  abbot  saying, 
44  God  alone  must  judge  us  all ! " 
And  a  burden,  heavy  weighing, 
Seemed  from  every  heart  to  fall. 

Awed  and  hushed,  but  no  more  keeping 
Pity  crushed,  or  love  restrained, 
Some  were  smiling,  some  were  weeping ; 
Of  their  striving  what  remained  ? 

45 


THE  BAG  OF  SAND 


Many  bowed  in  veneration ; 
Others  all  in  haste  to  go 
With  a  word  of  consolation 
To  their  brother  fallen  low* 

Hope  they  brought,  and  gentler  feeling. 
To  his  torn,  despairing  breast. 
And  that  evening  found  him  kneeling 
In  the  chapel  with  the  rest. 

None  arose  to  judge  or  sentence : 
He  whose  sin  they  most  deplored. 
In  his  long  and  sad  repentance, 
Was  with  charity  restored* 


46 


11  Crocifisso  della  providenza 


47 


*  I  rHE  crucifix  about  which  this  story  is  told  is  still 
•••  to  be  seen  in  the  church  of  the  Carmine,  where  it 
is  kept  in  the  Corsini  chapel;  and  it  is  always  shown  to 
the  public  on  the  first  of  May,  when  also  (as  the  bal 
lad  relates)  a  festa  is  held  in  the  house  once  occupied  by 
the  three  sisters,  in  the  Via  dell'  Orto. 

The  house  seems  to  have  been  little  changed  since 
they  lived  there;  it  now  bears  the  number  JO,  and  is 
easily  recognized  by  a  niche  in  the  wall,  containing  a 
representation  of  the  crucifix,  and  the  chest  piled  with 
loaves* 

From  time  immemorial,  a  lamp  burns  every  night 
before  this  little  shrine :  the  oil  is  provided  by  the  poor 
women  of  the  vicinity  (and  they  are  very  poor  indeed) , 
each  one  laying  by  a  few  centesimi  every  week  for  the 
purpose* 


48 


II  Oocif  189O  delta 
providcnza 


THE  streets  of  Florence  are  fair  to  see, 
With  palace  and  church  and  tower, 
And  there  the  mighty  of  earth  have  dwelt, 
And  the  whole  world  feels  their  power. 

And  many  come  from  the  East  and  West 
To  gaze  on  its  beauty  rare ; 
To  stand  where  the  wise  and  great  have  stood, 
For  their  presence  is  ever  there. 

But  they  never  think  of  the  narrow  streets 
Where  the  poor  of  the  city  dwell ; 
Those  humble  houses,  so  bare  and  plain, 
Have  tales  of  their  own  to  tell. 

There 's  one  by  the  San  Frediano  gate, 
Not  far  from  the  city  wall ; 
Some  Latin  words  on  its  front  engraved 
The  memory  still  recall 

4  49 


IL  CROOFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

Of  one,  a  beggar,  to  all  unknown, 
Who  knocked  at  the  door  one  day ; 
Of  what  a  blessing  he  left  behind 
That  morn  when  he  went  his  way. 

It  happened  hundreds  of  years  ago, 
But  they  tell  the  story  still ; 
So  listen  now  to  the  legend  old, 
And  smile  at  it  if  you  will. 

But  if  you  smile,  be  it  not  in  scorn ; 
The  tale  which  I  now  relate 
Has  lightened  many  a  heavy  heart 
By  the  San  Frediano  gate* 

Long  since,  they  say,  in  that  ancient  house 
There  were  orphan  maidens  three, 
And  in  the  chamber  above  the  door, 
Whose  window  you  still  may  see, 

They  worked  and  prayed,  by  the  world  unseen ; 
And  ever,  the  long  day  through, 
The  needles  stitched,  and  the  spindle  twirled, 
And  the  knitted  garment  grew. 

50 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

So  young,  and  one  of  them  yet  a  child, 
With  never  an  earthly  friend ; 
They  prayed  each  day  for  the  daily  bread 
Which  they  knew  the  Lord  would  send. 

And  toiling  cheerfully,  lived  content, 
Nor  ever  of  want  complained, 
But  freely  shared  with  the  needy  poor 
The  little  their  labour  gained, 

But  evil  days  to  the  sisters  came, 
And  their  faith  was  sorely  tried : 
A  merchant,  one  of  the  first  in  town, 
That  winter  had  failed  and  died. 

And  many  debts  had  he  left  behind, 
And  their  work  was  all  unpaid ; 
For  he  it  was  who  had  bought  and  sold 
The  delicate  wares  they  made. 

They  prayed  for  help,  and  they  sought  for  work ; 
But  awhile  they  sought  in  vain. 
They  pledged  the  ring  that  their  father  wore, 
And  their  mother's  golden  chain. 

51 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

Then  work  they  found,  but  for  neighbours  poor, 
And  some  of  them  could  not  pay ; 
'T  was  well  for  them  that  the  spring  began, 
And  the  cold  had  passed  away. 

And  one  by  one,  as  the  days  went  on, 
Were  the  household  treasures  sold,  — 
The  copper  pitcher,  the  brazen  lamp, 
And  the  nut-wood  table  old, 

The  pot  of  pinks  from  the  window-sill  — 
But  when  they  had  sold  them  all, 
An  ancient  crucifix,  carved  in  wood, 
Still  hung  on  the  whitewashed  wall 

Above  the  chest  where  the  loaves  were  kept ; 
Such  blessing  its  presence  shed, 
It  seemed  to  them  like  a  living  friend, 
And  not  like  an  image  dead ! 

In  all  their  troubles,  in  all  their  joys, 
That  crucifix  bore  a  part ; 
Above  all  comfort,  or  wealth,  or  gain, 
' T  was  dear  to  the  sisters'  heart ! 

52 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

As  babes,  before  they  could  understand, 
Or  ever  a  prayer  repeat, 
Each  day  their  father  had  held  them  up, 
While  they  kissed  the  carven  feet. 

So  April  came,  and  so  April  went ; 
And  they  lived,  the  Lord  knows  how ! 
The  elder  sister  had  saved  and  spared, 
But  the  chest  was  empty  now. 

That  very  evening  she  broke  in  halves, 
And  gave  to  the  younger  two, 
One  piece  of  bread  —  't  was  the  last  they  had ; 
There  was  nothing  more  to  do, 

Unless,  unless  —  and  she  looked  at  them, 
And  then  at  the  image  dear : 
She  touched  it  once ;  but  her  hand  drew  back 
With  a  guilty,  shrinking  fear. 

Her  sisters  saw,  and  they  started  up, 
And  they  said  in  haste,  "  Not  so ! 
Take  back  the  bread,  if  there  be  no  more ; 
The  crucifix  must  not  go ! " 

53 


IL  CROOFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

And  she  took  courage,  and  kissed  them  both, 
And  smiled,  though  her  eyes  were  wet ; 
Then  looked  again  at  the  face  beloved, 
And  said,  "  He  will  help  us  yet ! " 

They  rose  next  day  with  the  early  dawn, 
And'their  hearts  were  almost  light! 
The  young  need  little  to  make  them  glad, 
And  the  day  was  fair  and  bright. 

And  pleasant  *t  is  to  behold  the  sun, 
Though  his  rosy-tinted  ray 
Could  only  shine  on  the  moss-grown  tiles 
Of  the  roof  across  the  way. 

And  the  air  was  sweet  in  the  narrow  street 
Where  the  swallows  toss  and  glide ; 
For  a  perfume  came  on  the  morning  breeze 
From  the  hills  on  every  side,  — 

A  perfume  faint  from  the  woods  afar, 
From  blossoming  fields  of  corn ; 
And  bells  already  their  chimes  began, 
For  this  was  a  sacred  morn. 

54 


EL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

The  Carmine  church  is  near  at  hand, 
And  the  sisters  thither  hied ; 
T  was  there  they  had  knelt  in  happy  days 
By  the  dear  dead  mother's  side. 

Then  home,  through  the  gay  and  festive  street, 
Till  they  reached  the  chamber  bare : 
The  time  had  come  for  the  morning  meal, 
And  alas,  no  bread  was  there ! 

The  elder  girl  on  her  sisters  looked, 
And  her  face  grew  white  with  pain. 
Then  said  the  one  who  was  next  in  age, 
44  Let  us  ask  the  Lord  again ! " 

So  down  they  knelt  on  the  red-tiled  floor, 
And  the  elder  bowed  her  head, 
And  said  aloud,  while  the  others  joined, 
The  prayer  for  their  daily  bread. 

And  then,  with  a  tempest  in  her  heart 
That  she  could  no  more  withstand, 
With  her  arm  around  the  younger  girl, 
And  the  other  by  the  hand, 

55 


IL  CROOFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

She  pleaded,  raising  her  tearful  face 
To  the  dying  face  above, 
For  those  she  loved  in  their  helpless  state 
With  more  than  a  sister's  love. 

"  O  blessed  Jesus !  O  Lord  divine ! 
Have  pity,  we  wait  for  Thee ! 
Look  down  —  Thou  seest  our  empty  chest, 
Thou  knowest  how  poor  we  be ! 

"  Oh,  send  some  bread  to  my  sisters  dear, 
For  the  cornfields  all  are  Thine  I 
I  *d  rather  lie  in  my  grave  to-day 
Than  to  see  these  children  pine ! 

*  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  I  have  done  my  best ; 
But  my  hands  have  failed  at  length : 
A  mother's  burden  is  on  me  laid 
With  only  a  maiden's  strength. 

"  Come,  help  me !  Look  at  these  orphan  girls  ! 
Oh,  save  them  from  want  and  woe !  —  " 
Her  praying  ceased,  for  they  heard  a  sound, 
A  knock  at  the  door  below. 

56 


IL  CROCDFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

They  rose,  and  all  to  the  window  went : 
A  beggar  was  at  the  door, 
A  poor,  pale  stranger,  with  staff  in  hand, 
Who  had  never  come  before. 

The  Month  of  Mary  was  coming  in ; 
And  many  were  on  their  way 
To  ask  for  alms  in  the  Virgin's  name 
On  that  beautiful  first  of  May. 

44  My  little  sisters/'  the  beggar  said, 
(And  bowed  to  the  maidens  three,) 
44 1  pray  you  spare  from  your  table  spread 
A  morsel  of  bread  for  me ! 

"  I  come  from  far,  and  I  Ve  far  to  go ; 
And  I  Ve  eaten  nought  to-day ! " 
The  elder  wept,  but  she  answered  not ; 
And  the  second  turned  away* 

The  younger  looked  with  her  innocent  eyes 
In  the  beggar's  pleading  face : 
"  And  if  we  could,  we  would  give  you  food ; 
But  we  're  in  as  hard  a  case ! 

57 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

44  We  finished  yesterday  all  we  had  — 
The  half  of  a  loaf,  no  more !  — 
We  just  were  asking  the  Lord  for  bread, 
When  we  heard  you  at  the  door/' 

44  Go,  look  in  the  chest,  my  little  maid ; 
You  11  find  there  is  bread  to  spare ! " 
44  Alas,  we  have  looked  so  many  times, 
And  never  a  crust  is  there ! " 

"  Look  once  again,  for  the  love  of  Him 
Whose  image  I  see  within : 
He  never  has  failed  to  help  His  own, 
And  He  will  not  now  begin/' 

So  only  lest  it  should  seem  unkind 
To  refuse  the  small  request, 
The  elder  girl  with  a  patient  smile 
Went  back  to  the  empty  chest. 

She  looked  —  and  down  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
With  a  cry  of  glad  surprise : 
The  others  turned,  and  their  breath  stood  still, 
They  could  scarce  believe  their  eyes ! 

58 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

*T  was  full  I  And  the  loaves  were  piled  so  high 
They  could  close  the  lid  no  more* 
Their  tears  fell  faster  for  joy  that  day 
Than  they  fell  for  grief  before ! 

But  in  the  midst  of  their  thankful  praise 
They  thought  of  the  starving  man: 
The  little  one  seized  the  topmost  loaf, 
And  back  to  the  window  ran. 

She  looked,  she  called  him  —  he  was  not  there ! 
They  sought  him,  but  all  in  vain: 
He  passed  away  from  their  sight  that  day, 
And  he  came  no  more  again. 

So  ends  the  story ;  but  ever  since 
That  crucifix  bears  the  name 
La  Providenza  ;  and  even  now 
The  house  has  a  sacred  fame. 

And  many  kneel  where  the  sisters  knelt 
Each  year  on  the  first  of  May ; 
And  the  floor  is  all  bestrewn  with  flowers, 
And  leaves  of  the  scented  bay. 

59 


IL  CROCIFISSO  DELLA  PROVIDENZA 

The  humble  room  is  with  roses  decked, 
And  bright  with  the  candles'  glow; 
And  smoke  of  incense,  and  sound  of  psalm, 
Float  over  the  street  below. 

A  woman  aged  and  silver-haired 
Once  told  me,  with  solemn  thrill, 
How  she  herself  had  beheld  the  chest, 
Which  stands  in  the  chamber  still. 

I  asked  her :  "  Who  was  that  beggarman  ? 
An  angel,  do  you  suppose  ? 
A  saint  from  heaven  ?  "     Her  face  grew  grave, 
And  she  answered  me,  "  Who  knows  ?  " 

And  then,  with  voice  to  a  whisper  dropped, 

With  an  awed,  mysterious  air, 

"Some  think,"  she  said,    "'twas    the    Lord 

Himself 
Who  came  at  the  maiden's  prayer." 


Hngele  in  the  Churchyard 


story  of  the  "  Angels  in  the  Churchyard"  was 
*  told  me  by  Signore  Bortolo  Zanchetta  of  Bassano, 
who  said  that  he  read  it  in  an  old  book,  but  he  had 
lost  the  book,  and  could  not  even  remember  its  name* 


62 


Hngels 

in  the  Churchyard 


A  SAINT  there  was,  long  time  ago, 
And  all  in  vain  I  tried 
His  name  to  learn,  or  whence  he  came, 
Or  how  or  where  he  died* 

For  he  from  whom  the  tale  I  heard 
Could  tell  me  nothing  more 
Save  only  that  within  him  dwelt 
Of  love  an  endless  store. 

And  in  the  churchyard  once  he  passed 
A  summer  night  in  prayer, 
For  pity  of  the  nameless  dead 
Who  lie  forgotten  there. 

He  knew  not  when  the  sun  went  down, 
So  earnestly  he  prayed  I 
He  knew  not  when  the  twilight  glow 
Was  lost  in  deepening  shade. 

63 


ANGELS  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

And  when  the  fair,  round  moon  arose 
Behind  the  wooded  hill, 
She  looked  across  the  churchyard  wall, 
And  found  him  praying  still* 

But  when  the  night  was  far  along, 
And  when  the  moon  was  high, 
When  all  the  village  lights  were  out, 
And  closed  was  every  eye,  — 

When  low  above  the  sleeping  dead 
The  folded  daisies  slept, 
And  he  alone  his  patient  watch 
Until  the  morning  kept,  — 

Came  angels  through  the  churchyard  gate, 
But  in  no  heavenly  guise ; 
So  unadorned,  he  little  thought 
They  came  from  Paradise  I 

The  moon  lit  up  their  robes  of  white ; 
No  other  glory  shone. 
He  watched  them,  as  they  paused  before 
One  sunken,  moss-grown  stone, 

64 


ANGELS  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

And  thrice  their  silver  censers  swung, 
As  at  some  saintly  shrine, 
But  never  incense  burnt  on  earth 
Had  perfume  so  divine. 

Between  the  graves  they  glided  on : 
Toward  a  cross  they  turned  — 
A  wooden  cross  that  bore  no  name  — 
And  there  the  incense  burned* 

A  fading  garland  on  it  hung, 
Of  wild  flowers  simply  twined; 
Whoever  lay  in  that  poor  grave 
Had  left  some  love  behind. 

But  next  they  sought  a  dreary  place 
Against  the  northern  wall ; 
He  could  not  see  if  mound  were  there, 
The  nettles  grew  so  tall ! 

And  on  to  others,  three  or  four, 
Their  noiseless  steps  they  bent : 
'  Where'er  they  stayed,  the  incense  rose ; 
Then,  as  they  came,  they  went. 

5  65 


ANGELS  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

But  often  to  that  churchyard  green 
Did  he  at  night  repair ; 
And  ever,  when  the  hour  returned, 
The  angels  all  were  there. 

He  thought  them  only  white-robed  priests ; 
And  much  he  wondered  why 
Each  night  at  certain  graves  they  stayed, 
While  others  they  passed  by. 

Till,  after  waiting,  wondering  long, 
One  night  he  forward  pressed, 
And  spoke  with  one  who  walked  apart, 
A  step  behind  the  rest. 

'T  was  starlight  now ;  the  moon  had  waned 
He  hardly  saw  the  face 
Of  him  he  talked  with;  but  he  felt 
Great  peace  was  in  the  place. 

44  Of  God's  own  saints/'  the  angel  said, 
44  A  few  lie  buried  here ; 
And  He  so  loves  them  that  to  Him 
Their  very  dust  is  dear ! 

66 


ANGELS  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

44  So,  while  their  souls  with  perfect  peace 
Are  in  His  presence  blest, 
He  will  not  that  these  humble  graves 
Should  all  unhonoured  rest* 

44  Each  night  from  heaven  He  sends  us  down, 
Where'er  His  flowers  are  sown  — 
These  bodies  that  shall  one  day  rise, 
All  glorious  like  His  own  ! n 

The  saint  was  silent,  for  his  lips 
Could  find  no  word  to  say : 
He  stood  entranced,  and  like  to  one 
Whose  soul  is  far  away. 

At  length  he  roused ;  the  stars  were  dim, 
The  night  had  half  withdrawn : 
A  light  was  in  the  eastern  sky, 
The  clear  pale  light  of  dawn. 

Then  came  a  freshening  in  the  air, 
A  twitter  in  the  trees, 
A  ripple  in  the  dewy  grass 
That  felt  the  early  breeze ; 

67 


ANGELS  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

And  sounded  from  the  tower  above 
The  sweet-toned,  ancient  bell ; 
While  bright  and  busy  over  all 
The  summer  morning  fell. 

The  daisies  opened ;  happy  birds 
Sang  in  the  sunshine  free. 
The  dead  alone  are  sleeping  now ; 
Their  morning  is  to  be. 


The  Origin  of  the  Indian  Com 


69 


'  I  *HIS  story  was  told  me  by  the  Contessa  Vittoria 
•1  Percoto  Antonini  of  Palmanuova,  who  said  that 
she  heard  it  in  her  youth  at  a  Fila,  which  is  a  sort  of 
social  gathering  held  in  the  winter  evenings  by  the 
contadini  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  these  contadini,  who  are  very 
poor  and  can  ill  afford  the  wood  for  a  fire,  meet  in  the 
cattle-shed,  where  the  breath  of  cows  and  oxen  warms 
the  air  a  little* 

They  often  say,  "It  is  the  way  that  the  Gestt 
Bambino  was  warmed ! "  A  lantern  hangs  from  one 
of  the  beams  overhead,  and  by  its  dim  light  the  women 
spin  or  knit*  All  talk  together,  and  (as  the  Contessa 
Vittoria  expresses  it)  "the  boys  make  themselves  agree 
able  to  the  girls,  very  much  as  though  it  were  a  party 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

And  from  time  to  time  the  elder  people  entertain  the 
company  with  stories,  of  which  this  is  a  pretty  fair 
specimen. 


70 


Cbc  Origin  of  tbelndian 

Legend  of  friulitf 


TN  the  far  Italian  border  land, 
•*•  With  its  rolling  hills  and  mountains  grand, 
And  the  Alps  of  Carnia  rising  near, 
Where  the  snow  lies  more  than  half  the  year ; 
With  crags  where  the  clinging  fir-trees  grow 
Above  the  chestnuts  and  vines  below, 
From  the  weary,  changing  world  remote,  — 
There  age  on  age  doth  a  legend  float. 
The  young  have  learnt  it  from  aged  men ; 
It  never  was  written  yet  with  pen. 
It  seems  at  first,  when  they  tell  it  o'er, 
A  childish  fancy,  and  nothing  more ; 
And  bearing  the  impress,  deep  indeed, 
Of  the  hard  and  struggling  lives  they  lead : 
A  thing  to  smile  at,  and  then  forget, 
Scarce  worthy  a  passing  thought  —  and  yet 
The  simple  tale  may  a  lesson  teach 
If  only  one  can  its  meaning  reach ! 
Like  one  of  their  living,  hill-side  springs, 
That  shows  the  image  of  common  things ; 

7J 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

So  he  who  looks  on  its  surface  sees 
The  bending  flowers,  the  arching  trees, 
The  sun,  the  shadow,  the  rocks,  the  sky, 
The  busy  birds  that  go  flitting  by, 
While  deep  below  is  the  endless  wealth 
Of  water,  given  for  life  and  health. 

In  homely  form  is  the  lesson  taught ; 

But  worthy  still  of  a  reverent  thought. 

So  listen,  think ;  if  you  have  a  mind 

To  seek,  and  the  hidden  treasure  find : 

For  Truth,  most  precious  and  fair,  doth  dwell 

In  the  crystal  depth  of  this  mountain  well. 

And  this  is  the  story,  often  told 

In  the  winter  evenings  long  and  cold ; 

In  the  low-roofed,  dimly  lighted  shed, 

Where  the  breath  of  oxen  serves  instead 

Of  a  blazing  hearth  to  warm  the  place : 

A  smile  of  peace  is  on  every  face, 

And  hearts  are  light,  and  they  often  say, 

"  Our  Lord  was  warmed  in  the  self-same  way, 

That  night  when  He  on  the  earth  was  born ! " 

And  the  shed  no  longer  seems  forlorn, 

72 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

For  it  makes  them  feel  Him  near  at  hand : 
And  they  the  better  can  understand 
How  by  His  pity  and  timely  aid 
The  beautiful  Indian  corn  was  made. 

T  was  in  the  days  when  He  dwelt  below, 
Before  *t  was  given  to  man  to  know 
Or  who  He  was  or  from  whence  He  came ; 
And  the  world  had  hardly  heard  His  name ! 
He  journeyed  over  the  country  roads, 
He  taught  the  poor,  and  He  eased  their  loads. 
He  had  no  dwelling  wherein  to  rest 
With  the  one  or  two  who  loved  Him  best, 
And  once  in  seeking  a  friendly  door 
They  came  to  a  farmer's  threshing-floor. 
The  hot  July  had  but  just  begun ; 
The  road  lay  white  in  the  blinding  sun ; 
The  air  was  heavy  with  odours  sweet ; 
The  sky  was  pale,  as  if  faint  with  heat. 
Two  weary  men  and  two  women  pale 
Were  threshing,  each  with  a  heavy  flail,  — 
A  mile  away  you  could  hear  the  sound 
In  measured  cadence  along  the  ground. 
Then,  moved  with  pity  at  such  a  sight, 

73 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

It  pleased  Him  to  make  their  burden  light. 
At  first  He  prayed  them  to  pause  and  rest ; 
They  only  smiled  at  the  strange  request, 
And  laboured  on  till  He  spoke  again : 
"  Fear  not,  Myself  I  will  thresh  the  grain!  " 

At  sound  of  His  holy  voice,  they  knew 
That  what  He  said  He  would  surely  do ! 
He  bade  them  bring  Him  a  burning  brand, 
And,  though  they  little  could  understand, 
The  brand  was  brought,  and  they  saw  Him 

bend, 

And  touch  the  corn  with  the  lighted  end* 
Then  swiftly,  as  by  a  tempest  blown, 
The  straw  to  the  farther  side  was  thrown ; 
The  wheaten  kernels,  all  clear  and  bright, 
Lay  piled  on  high  —  9i  was  a  pleasant  sight  I 
Another  and  smaller  heap  contained 
The  chaff,  and  whatever  else  remained. 
'T  was  threshed  and  winnowed,  and  all  in  one ; 
The  work  of  days  in  a  moment  done ! 
The  happy  threshers,  with  one  accord, 
Gave  thanks  and  praise  to  the  blessed  Lord ; 
And  grateful  tears  at  His  feet  were  shed. 

74 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

Meanwhile  the  news  through  the  village  spread ; 
For  more  than  one  had  been  near,  and  seen 
The  miracle  of  the  wheat  made  clean. 
From  field  and  garden  and  cottage  door, 
The  people  flocked  to  the  threshing-floor. 
Then  came  a  time  of  such  joy  supreme 
As  never  had  been  in  thought  or  dream. 
For  when   they  looked  on  the  clean-threshed 

wheat, 

And  heard  the  threshers  their  tale  repeat, 
And  knew  that  He  had  this  wonder  done, 
They  knelt  and  worshipped  Him,  every  one ! 
Oh,  think  how  happy  they  were  and  blest, 
Who  might  awhile  in  His  presence  rest  1 
Think  what  it  would  be  for  you  or  me 
That  voice  to  hear  and  that  face  to  see  I 
The  children  run  to  Him  where  He  stands, 
And  cling  with  their  little  sunbrowned  hands 
To  His  garment ;  and  the  parents  feel 
Their  burden  lightened  while  yet  they  kneel. 
"  Thank  God,  who  spared  us  !  "  the  aged  say, 
'  To  look  on  Thy  blessed  face  to-day ! " 
The  sick  are  healed,  and  the  weak  made  strong, 
And  hearts  consoled  that  had  suffered  long : 

75 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

A  sound  of  gladness,  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Floats  far  away  on  the  summer  air. 

Amid  such  transports  of  young  and  old, 
How  was  it  that  one  could  still  be  cold  ? 
A  certain  widow  whom  all  confessed 
To  be  the  bravest,  perhaps  the  best, 
Among  the  women  the  place  contained  — 
Why  was  it  that  she  aloof  remained  ? 

Handsome  and  stately,  and  strong  of  arm 

To  guard  her  fatherless  babes  from  harm, 

With  five  little  hungry  mouths  to  fill ; 

For  them  she  laboured  with  might  and  will ! 

But,  proud  of  spirit,  she  could  not  bear 

That  other  hearts  should  her  burden  share. 

Of  soul  too  high  for  an  evil  deed, 

She  scorned  the  others,  but  helped  their  need. 

In  wit  and  wisdom  the  rest  excelled, 

And  yet  their  kindness  too  oft  repelled ; 

Accepted  nothing,  though  free  to  give, 

And  almost  rather  had  ceased  to  live 

Than  share  the  loaf  from  a  neighbour's  shelf. 

Yes,  proud  of  her  very  pride  itself ! 

76 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

She  nursed  it,  cherished  it,  thought  it  grand, 

To  guide  unaided  her  house  and  land, 

And  thanked  the  Lord,  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 

That  never  one  in  the  place  could  say, 

"  I  help  the  widow ! "    And  now  she  stood 

Apart  from  the  kneeling  multitude, 

And  half  impatient  and  half  amused, 

She  smiled  at  the  simple  words  they  used, 

Of  praise  and  wonder,  and  thought  how  she 

Could  never  so  weak  and  childish  be ! 

For  her  't  was  a  proud  and  happy  day, 

For  rest  and  plenty  before  her  lay : 

Herself  had  sown  and  herself  had  reaped ; 

And  now  the  beautiful  sheaves  lay  heaped, 

Not  far  away,  by  her  open  door ; 

Her  heart  rejoiced  in  the  ample  store ! 

A  neighbour  saw  her,  and  called  her  name : 

"  Come  near !  perhaps  He  will  do  the  same 

For  thee,  and  thy  summer's  work  complete ; 

I  know  that  thou  hast  not  threshed  thy  wheat ! " 

She  tossed  her  head  with  a  smile  of  pride : 
"  I  never  yet,  since  my  husband  died, 

77 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

Asked  help  or  favour  of  any  one ! 
Besides,  I  saw  how  the  thing  was  done, 
And  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  He ; 
He  need  not  turn  from  His  way  for  me ! " 
She  looked  on  the  awed,  adoring  crowd, 
In  scorn  a  moment ;  then  laughed  aloud, 
To  see  the  horror  among  them  spread, 
At  sound  of  the  evil  words  she  said. 

Our  Lord's  disciples,  though  saints  they  were, 

Had  no  good  wishes  that  day  for  her  ! 

Indeed,  their  patience  was  greatly  tried 

To  see  Him  slighted  and  thrust  aside. 

One  even  whispered, "  Hast  Thou  not  heard  ?  " 

But  He  said  never  an  angry  word ! 

One  look  of  pity  He  on  her  cast, 

Then  turned,  and  forth  from  the  village  passed, 

Along  the  lane  where  the  grass  was  brown, 

And  birds  were  plucking  the  thistle-down, 

Till  under  the  olives'  silver  screen 

He  turned  aside,  and  no  more  was  seen. 

And  now  the  widow  of  heart  so  proud 
Would  show  to  the  grave,  indignant  crowd 

78 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

Her  greater  wisdom ;  with  this  intent 
She  calmly  in  to  her  fireside  went ; 
Some  coals  she  brought  in  an  iron  pan  — 
"  If  one  can  do  it,  another  can ! " 
She  said ;  and  then  with  a  careless  smile 
She  touched  the  coals  to  her  golden  pile, 

A  flash,  a  crackle,  a  blinding  blaze 
Of  flame,  that  struggles,  and  soars,  and  sways, 
And  sinks  a  moment,  and  soars  again  — 
That  was  the  end  of  the  widow's  grain ! 
A  few  short  moments,  and  nought  remained 
Of  all  that  her  loving  toil  had  gained 
But  blackened  tinder,  and  embers  red, 
And  the  sullen  smoke-cloud  overhead ! 

Her  friends  and  neighbours,  I  fear,  meanwhile 
Were  far  less  minded  to  weep  than  smile ; 
And  hardly  one  was  with  pity  moved, 
For  the  woman  was  not  greatly  loved. 
And  all  were  angry,  as  well  as  grieved, 
To  think  of  the  slight  our  Lord  received, 
After  His  wonderful  goodness  shown, 
And  when  He  had  made  their  cares  His  own  I 

79 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

The  boys  were  ready  to  dance  and  shout, 

At  seeing  the  red  sparks  blown  about ; 

The  maidens  whispered  and  laughed  aside ; 

Their  parents  talked  on  the  sin  of  pride, 

To  help  or  comfort  her,  no  one  planned, 

Except  the  poorest  of  all  the  band ; 

An  aged  woman,  who  near  her  came, 

And  drew  her  back  from  the  scorching  flame. 

"Poor  soul!"    she  said,  "thou  hast   children 

five! 

And  I  have  none  in  the  world  alive. 
Keep  up  thy  heart !    I  am  well  content 
To  share  with  thee  what  the  Lord  has  sent. 
I  just  have  gathered  my  harvest  store, 
And  when  *t  is  gone,  He  will  send  us  more  1 " 

In  vain  they  spoke  to  her,  ill  or  good ; 
She  neither  listened  nor  understood. 
She  minded  not  if  they  frowned  or  smiled ; 
Her  face  was  white,  and  her  eyes  were  wild, 
As,  lost  in  horror,  she  stood  and  gazed 
To  see  the  corn  by  her  labour  raised, 
Their  store  of  food  for  the  coming  year, 
Consume  before  her  and  disappear ! 

80 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

Then  came  the  cry  of  a  little  child, 

From  sleep  awakened,  in  terror  wild. 

That  cry  brought  life  to  her  fainting  heart ; 

She  turned  around  with  a  sudden  start, 

And  said,  in  a.  husky  voice  and  low, 

"  Which  way  did  that  Blessed  Stranger  go  ?  " 

A  storm  of  voices  around  her  rose ; 
The  woman's  purpose  they  all  oppose. 
"  Which  fray?  "  they  angrily  say;  "but  how? 
Wilt  thou  have  courage  to  seek  him  now? 
And  after  thy  shameful  words  to-day, 
Is  He  to  stop  for  thee  on  His  way  ? 
Is  He  to  come  when  He  hears  thy  call  ? 
But,  woman,  hast  thou  no  shame  at  all  ?  " 
44  Nay,  go  not  near  Him ! "  another  said : 
44  That  man  has  power  to  strike  thee  dead, 
And  thou  hast  angered  Him !    Let  Him  go — 
Thy  pride  has  ruined  thee;  be  it  so! " 

Though  none  to  help  her  a  hand  would  lend, 
That  gray-haired  woman  was  still  her  friend ; 
She  could  not  speak,  for  her  voice  was  drowned 
In  such  a  tumult  of  angry  sound. 

6  81 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

She  only  made  with  her  wrinkled  hand 
A  sign  the  widow  could  understand, 
And  quick  as  thought,  and  before  they  knew, 
Away  on  her  wild  pursuit  she  flew. 

Our  Blessed  Lord,  with  His  followers  few, 

Had  journeyed  on  for  a  mile  or  two, 

When,  on  the  brow  of  a  rocky  hill, 

The  others  noticed  that  He  stood  still 

And  looked  behind  Him;  they  did  the  same. 

A  woman  running  toward  them  came, 

Running  and  stumbling,  and  falling  oft, 

And  throwing  wildly  her  arms  aloft, 

As  if  entreating  them  still  to  stay 

Till  she  could  finish  the  toilsome  way ! 

They  looked;  and  pity  their  souls  possessed 

At  first  in  seeing  her  thus  distressed ; 

But  when  they  knew  her,  their  hearts  grew 

hard, 

Nor  would  they  longer  her  prayers  regard. 
"  Good  Lord,  that  woman  it  is,"  they  say, 
44  Who  scorned  and  slighted  Thee  so  to-day. 
She  knows  her  folly,  perhaps,  too  late ;  ^ 
For  her,  most  surely,  we  should  not  wait ! " 

82 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

"  She  needs  me  now ! "  was  His  sole  reply ; 
And  still  He  waited — they  wondered  why ! 

Down  in  the  dust  at  His  feet  she  fell : 
Her  doleful  story  she  could  not  tell, 
For  speech  had  failed,  and  she  vainly  tried : 
But,  stretching  her  helpless  hands,  she  cried 
(With  lips  that  hardly  the  words  could  form, 
They  trembled  so  with  the  inward  storm), 
"  Good  Lord,  have  patience,  and  pity  take 
On  me,  for  the  innocent  children's  sake ! " 
And  then  from  her  eyes  began  to  pour 
A  flood  of  tears,  and  she  said  no  more. 
She  dropped  her  head  on  her  heaving  breast ; 
But  He  in  His  wisdom  knew  the  rest. 
And  when  He  looked  on  her,  bowed  and 

crushed, 

Her  pride  all  broken,  her  boasting  hushed, 
"Take  heart!"  He  said:    "I  will  give  thee 

more 
And  better  grain  than  thou  hadst  before." 

The  day  was  drawing  toward  a  close, 
The  sky  was  clear  in  its  deep  repose ; 

83 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

The  sun,  just  sinking  away  from  sight, 
Had  touched  with  a  solemn  crimson  light 
The  smoky  column  that,  dark  and  thin, 
Still  rose   where  the   widow's  sheaves  had 

been. 

The  neighbours  lingered,  or  came  and  went 
To  look,  and  talk  of  the  day's  event. 
And,  smiling  grimly  the  wreck  to  view, 
Some  said :  "  The  widow  has  had  her  due ! " 
But  more  of  them  shook  their  heads  and 

sighed, 

To  think  of  the  bitter  fruits  of  pride. 
And  one  old  woman  looked  down  the  lane, 
And  wished  the  widow  would  come  again ! 
The  five  poor  little  ones  sat  forlorn, 
Beside  the  blackened  and  wasted  corn ; 
And    ate    the    bread    that    the    neighbours 

brought : 

For  them,  at  least,  there  was  pitying  thought. 
No  sin  of  theirs,  if  the  corn  was  burned ! 
And  then  it  was  that  the  Lord  returned. 

Returned,  as  ever,  to  save  and  bless ! 

And  while  the  people  around  Him  press, 

84 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

The  widow  kneels  and  the  children  weep, 

He  lays  His  hand  on  the  smouldering  heap. 

His  touch  has  the  evil  work  undone ; 

And  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun 

The  corn  returned  where  the  ashes  lay ; 

But  not  as  it  was  at  noon  that  day. 

To  twice  their  size  had  the  kernels  grown, 

And  each  with  a  burning  lustre  shone. 

For,  since  that  grain  through  the  fire  has 

passed, 
'T  will  bear  its  colour  until  the  last ! 

A  few,  in  seeing  the  store  increased 

Of  her  who  seemed  to  deserve  it  least, 

Began  to  murmur ;  and  yet,  maybe, 

Themselves  were  more  in  the  wrong  than  she ! 

With  all  her  folly,  with  all  her  sin  — 

For  all  her  ignorant  pride  had  been 

Far  more,  alas,  than  her  reason  strong,  — 

She  never  did  Him  that  grievous  wrong 

Of  thinking  He  could  refuse  the  prayer 

Of  one  who  sought  Him  in  her  despair ; 

Or  that  her  sin,  were  it  twice  as  great, 

Could  close  His  heart  to  her  woful  state ; 

85 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  INDIAN  CORN 

Or  lie  so  heavily  on  her  soul 

But  what  His  love  could  outweigh  the  whole ! 

But  most  rejoiced  in  the  happy  sight 

Of  evil  conquered  and  wrong  made  right. 

And  so  from  ruin  and  wreck  was  born 
The  beautiful,  flame-hued  Indian  corn ! 


rbceidcst  Daughter  of  the  King 


87 


f HE  two  stories  of  the  Patriarch,  St.  John  of  Alex- 
•1  andria,  which  arc  especially  interesting;,  as  being 
without  doubt  true  in  all  their  principal  facts,  are  taken 
from  a  short  account  of  that  wonderful  man,  written 
by  St.  Leontius,  Bishop  of  Napolis,  in  Cyprus,  who 
visited  Alexandria  after  the  Patriarch's  death,  and 
wrote  in  great  part  from  the  dictation  of  the  Patriarch's 
servant,  by  name  Zaccarias,  himself  a  man  of  saintly 
character.  The  stories  must  have  been  written  by  St. 
Leontius  not  long  after  620,  when  the  Patriarch  died^ 


Che  eldest  Daughter 
of  the  King 

SAINT  JOHN  of  Alexandria —  blessed  name, 
Recalling  ever  holy  thought  and  deed ! 
O  heart  forever  warm  with  heavenly  flame  I 

0  hand  forever  full  for  others'  need ! 

Blessed  and  blessing  thousands !   Since  his  day, 
Twelve  hundred  years,  and  more,  have  come 

and  gone, 

Their  beauty  dead,  their  glory  passed  away : 
But  in  our  loving  thought  he  still  lives  on, 

Of  all  who  ever  walked  on  earthly  sod, 
(Though  many  loved  and  saintly  names  there 
be,) 

1  know  not  if  another  ever  trod 

More  closely  in  his  Master's  steps  than  he ! 

To  comfort  all  who  suffer,  —  this  alone 
His  soul  desired ;  for  this  he  prayed  and  strove 
With  heart  unchanging ;  and  for  him  were  none 
Too  high  for  pity,  nor  too  low  for  love. 

89 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

And  often  was  he  rich,  and  often  poor ; 
For  God  upon  him  had  great  wealth  bestowed, 
Which  endless  store  of  blessing  did  procure 
To  souls  that  fainted  with  their  weary  load. 

Nor  could  he  e'er  from  sorrow  turn  away, 
Nor  from  a  brother's  need  his  hand  withhold ; 
But  when  his  all  was  spent,  men  used  to  say, 
The  good  Lord  gave  him  back  a  hundredfold. 

Enough  there  was,  and  ever  more  to  spare, 
Though  help  abundant  came  at  every  call. 
When  prudent  friends  had  prayed  him  to  forbear, 
He  only  said,  "  God  has  enough  for  all/' 

Till,  for  their  souls'  content,  he  told  the  truth, — 
He  being  now  a  grey-haired  aged  man,  — 
The  holy  vision  that  had  blessed  his  youth, 
And  changed,'of  all  his  life,  the  course  and  plan. 

44  A  boy  I  was,  and  in  my  father's  home 
I  slept ;  't  was  night,  and  I  was  all  alone, 
When  to  my  side  I  felt  a  presence  come ; 
A  hand  awakened  me  that  touched  my  own. 

90 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

44 1  saw  the  chamber  all  ablaze  with  light, 
And  there,  before  me,  stood  a  lady  fair, 
With  olive  crowned,  and  clad  in  raiment  bright, 
Such  as,  I  think,  the  saints  in  Heaven  may  wear. 

"  Hers  was  no  earthly  beauty,  but  a  grace 
Most  sweet  and  solemn  that  no  words  can  reach ; 
I  looked  awhile  in  her  celestial  face, 
And  then  addressed  her,  but  with  timid  speech : 

" '  Who  art  thou,  O  my  lady,  that  dost  bring 
Such  glory  in  the  night  ? '  Then  answered  she : 
'  I  am  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  King, 
And  more  than  all  my  sisters,  he  loves  me. 

"  '  For  me  He  left  His  glory :  it  was  I 
Who  led  Him  on  along  the  thorny  road, 
To  suffer,  and  for  others'  sin  to  die ; 
For  me  He  shared  thy  sorrow,  bore  thy  load. 

"  *  Take  me  for  thy  companion :  I  will  be 
Thy  friend  as  I  was  His,  and  by  the  hand 
Will  lead  thee  where  at  evening  thou  shalt  see 
The  emperor's  face,  and  in  his  presence  stand/ 

91 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

"  While  yet  the  voice  was  sounding  in  my  ear 
The  vision  ceased ;  I  saw  the  light  no  more : 
The  moon  was  shining  through  the  window  near, 
And  all  the  house  was  silent  as  before, 

4t  And,  waiting  till  I  saw  the  dawn  ascend, 
I  lay  and  mused  upon  this  wondrous  thing ; 
And  tried,  with  my  child's  mind,  to  comprehend 
Who  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  King. 

44 1  prayed,  I  pondered  long  in  vain ;  until 
A  light  from  Heaven  was  on  my  spirit  shed : 
And  not  by  wisdom,  nor  by  earthly  skill, 
I  knew  the  meaning  of  the  words  she  said. 

"  When  Christ  our  blessed  Lord  to  earth  came 

down, 

And  gave  His  life  for  lost  and  thankless  men, 
And  changed  His  glory  for  a  thorny  crown, 
T  was  Mercy  led  and  did  constrain  Him  then. 

"Ah,  woe  to  us,  if  Mercy  had  not  been 
His  eldest  daughter,  and  His  guide  that  day ! 
Then  had  we  died,  and  perished  in  our  sin, 
Unpitied,  unforgiven,  cast  away/* 

92 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

Such  was  the  Patriarch's  story,  and  we  know 
That  Mercy  in  his  heart  her  dwelling  made, 
As  in  no  other ;  and  his  life  below 
Was  Mercy,  in  a  thousand  forms  displayed. 

And  when  the  summons  came  that  comes  to  all, 
As  on  a  journey  distant  far  he  went ; 
While  he,  rejoicing,  heard  the  heavenly  call, 
This  token  to  the  stricken  church  was  sent. 

A  humble  convent  had  his  bounty  shared, 
From  Alexandria  some  few  miles  away; 
And  there,  where  he  for  rest  had  oft  repaired, 
An  aged  brother  sick  and  dying  lay. 

For  years  infirm  and  helpless  had  he  lain, 
But  strong  in  faith,  and  happy  in  God's  will, 
Through  all  the  weary  days  and  nights  of  pain, 
His  only  work  to  suffer  and  lie  still. 

They  two  were  friends,  the  Patriarch  and  he, 
For  oft  the  busy  saint  had  loved  to  turn 
From  care  and  work,  that  peaceful  face  to  see, 
And  from  those  patient  lips  some  lesson  learn. 

93 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

And  now  as  he  lay  dying,  glad  to  go, 
Yet  thinking,  maybe,  of  his  absent  friend, 
To  him  was  granted  in  a  dream  to  know, 
Of  that  most  holy  life,  the  blessed  end. 

For,  sleeping,  he  beheld  in  vision  clear 
That  sombre  palace  by  the  poor  beloved, 
Where  the  good  Patriarch,  year  after  year, 
Had  all  their  burdens  lightened  or  removed. 

And  down  the  stairway  moved  a  long  array 
Of  priests  and  others ;  slowly  did  they  tread, 
A  grave  procession,  as  on  festal  day, 
And  he,  the  Patriarch,  was  at  their  head. 

The  loved  companions  of  his  toil  were  there, 
Who  helped  him  long  to  labour  and  endure, 
Who  knelt  beside  him  in  the  church  at  prayer, 
Or  bore  his  secret  bounty  to  the  poor. 

They  passed  the  door  where  none  had  knocked 

in  vain, 

They  crossed  the  courtyard  with  its  well  of  stone; 
But  at  the  outer  gate  did  all  remain 
With  saddened  look,  while  he  went  forth  alone. 

94 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

And  now  the  vision  changed,  he  walked  no  more 
The  city  street  that  knew  his  step  so  well, 
But  trod  a  pleasant  path,  unknown  before, 
Through  a  fair  land,  where  peace  did  ever  dwell. 

There  rose  the  emperor's  palace  on  a  hill, 
O'erlooking  all  the  country,  where  it  lay 
Spread  out  beneath  it,  beautiful  and  still, 
In  all  the  sweetness  of  an  April  day. 

Grand  was  that  mansion,  stately  to  behold ; 
To  tell  its  beauty  words  can  ne'er  begin,  — 
The  thousand  columns,  and  the  domes  of  gold, 
And  shining  all  as  from  a  light  within, 

He  neared  the  palace  —  of  their  own  accord 
The  lofty  gates  before  him  open  swing, 
And  in  the  glory,  as  it  outward  poured, 
Came  forth  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  King, 

Came  as  he  saw  her  on  that  far-off  night 
Which  star-like  through  his  life's  long  journey 

shone, 

Wearing  her  olive  crown,  her  robe  of  light, 
And  came  to  meet  him,  where  he  walked  alone* 

95 


ELDEST  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 

He  bowed  and  knelt  before  her,  for  he  knew 
That  presence    which  had  blessed  him  long 

before ; 

While  from  her  folded  mantle  forth  she  drew 
A  crown  of  olive,  like  the  one  she  wore, 

And  placed  it  on  the  saintly  silvered  head ; 
Then  took  his  hand.  He  rose ;  nor  did  they  wait : 
The  dreamer  watched  them  as  they  onward  sped, 
Till,  hand  in  hand,  they  entered  through  the 
gate. 

And  then,  as  light  concealed  them,  he  awoke, 
And  to  the  brethren,  gathered  in  his  cell, 
In  tearful  silence  listening  while  he  spoke, 
He  did  the  story  of  his  vision  tell, 

And  bade  them  note  what  hour  the  dream  was 

sent, 
Which  some  with  anxious  hearts  made  haste  to 

do; 

Then  waited,  fearing  what  the  vision  meant ; 
Till  time  had  shown  them  all  they  feared  was 

true. 

96 


For  when  the  dreaded  tidings  came  at  last, 
They  knew  that  on  that  very  hour  and  day 
Their   much-loved   father   from   this  life   had 

passed, 
In  his  own  isle  of  Cyprus,  far  away. 


97 


Bishop 


99 


Bishop  Croilus 

THE  MANSION  IN  HEAVEN 

rpomp  and  state,  with  following  great,  the 
Bishop  Troilus  came 
To  the  town  of  Alexandria,  which  knew  him 

long  by  fame, 
To  see  the  holy  Patriarch,  who  had  been  his 

friend  of  old, 
To  hear  his  words  of  wisddm,  and  his  saintly 

life  behold. 
In  youth  their  paths  together  lay,  and  both  with 

one  accord 
Had  chosen  then  the  better  part,  and  thought  to 

serve  the  Lord ; 
For  half  a  century  now  and  more  had  each  one 

gone  his  way. 
The  Patriarch  nearer  was  to  God,  far  nearer 

than  that  day ; 
For  his  soul  was  like  a  garden  where  the  flowers 

that  then  were  sown, 
With  care  and  patient  tending,  had  to  perfect 

beauty  grown. 

JOJ 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  Troilus?  ...    In  the  world's  esteem  he 

stood  as  high,  or  higher ; 
His   piety   did   all  men  praise,  his  eloquence 

admire ; 
He  had  fiery  words  to  thrill  them,  he  had  flowery 

words  to  please, 
And  when  he  preached  on  festal  days,  the  people 

swarmed  like  bees ; 
From  altar  steps  to  open  door  there  was  hardly 

room  to  stand. 
And  't  was  not  the  sermon  only,  but  his  presence 

was  so  grand ; 
With  his  grave  and  aged  beauty,  with  his  form 

erect  and  tall, 
With  saintly  face  and  silver  hair,  he  won  the 

hearts  of  all. 
When  through  the  city  he  returned,  so  lofty  and 

serene, 

A  train  of  priests  attended  him,  all  with  obsequi 
ous  mien ; 
And  children  followed  open-eyed,  and  gentle 

ladies  bent 
From  balcony  and  window  high  to  see  him  as 

he  went. 

102 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Indeed  he  was  a  stately  sight  in  silken  raiment 

clad, 
The  ring  he  wore  was  valued  more  than  aught 

the  Patriarch  had ; 
And  the  cross  upon  his  bosom,  that  the  people 

wondering  viewed, 
Gave  back  the  sunshine,  when  he  walked,  from 

jewels  many-hued. 
And  men  said  his  life  was  blameless,  but  it  still 

must  be  confessed, 
Though  the  saints  were  glad  to  own  him,  yet 

the  sinners  loved  him  best. 
He  was  rich,  and  he  was  famous,  and,  as  all  his 

life  had  shown, 
He  was  great  in  worldly  wisdom,  and  the  world 

will  love  its  own. 

But  while  saints  and  sinners  praised  him,  there 
was  one  who  did  not  praise, 

But  whose  eyes  forever  watched  him  with  a  sad 
and  anxious  gaze ; 

For  the  Patriarch,  simple-hearted,  was  not  daz 
zled  like  the  rest, 


J03 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  he  knew  the  deadly  passion  that  the  Bishop's 

soul  possessed,  — 
Yes,  more  deadly  than  another,  for  it  lay  so  still 

and  cold, 
Like  a  serpent  coiled  within  him,  —  'twas  the 

growing  love  of  gold* 

It  had  choked  away  his  pleasure,  it  had  eaten  up 

his  peace, 
As  with  every  year  that  left  him  he  had  seen  his 

wealth  increase, 
Till  his  heart  grew  dry  and  withered  in  the 

smoke  of  worldly  care ; 
But  it  dulled  him  with  its  poison,  and  he  knew 

not  it  was  there. 
Oh,  the  Patriarch  longed  to  see  him  from  such 

cruel  bondage  free, 
And  he  pleaded  hard  for  Troilus  every  night  on 

bended  knee ; 
For  there  yet  was  time  to  save  him,  so  he  hoped 

and  so  believed, 
But  the  days  and  weeks  were  passing,  and  no 

answer  he  received* 


104 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


But  with  praying  he  grew  bolder,  and  to  combat 

he  began, 
And  he  left  his  door  one  morning  with  a  wise 

and  hopeful  plan ; 
And  he  said  in  solemn  murmur,  as  he  walked 

along  the  way, 
"  I  must  go  and  fight  with  Satan  for  my  brother's 

soul  to-day; 

He  is  cruel,  he  is  cunning,  but  his  arts  will  be  in  vain, 
The  strongest  net  he  ever  wove  will  never  bear 

the  strain 
Of  seeing  and  of  hearing  what  each  day  I  hear 

and  see, 
And  the  Lord  has  saved  my  brother  if  he  will 

but  come  with  me/' 

It  was  in  the  early  morning,  long  before  the  noise 

and  heat, 
And  the  life  was  just  beginning  in  the  shady  city 

street, 
When  he  saw  a  church  door  open,  and  he  turned 

and  entered  in. 
"  I  will  ask  the  Lord  to  help  me  in  this  work  that 

I  begin/' 

JOS 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


There  were  some  who  entered  near  him,  and  he 
saw  they  came  in  haste, 

Toiling  men  and  burdened  women,  who  had 
little  time  to  waste ; 

But  they  stole  some  precious  minutes  in  that 
church  to  kneel  and  pray, 

To  refresh  their  souls  and  cheer  them  for  the 
labours  of  the  day ; 

And  they  gathered  close  around  him  on  the  pave 
ment,  for  they  felt 

That  their  prayers  would  rise  the  higher  if  their 
father  with  them  knelt. 

Then  he  said  to  them :  "  My  children,  you  must 
help  me  now  indeed, 

For  my  heart  and  soul  are  troubled  for  a  friend 
in  sorest  need ; 

He  is  low  with  mortal  sickness,  but  no  earthly 
skill  can  cure* 

Pray  the  Lord  to  show  His  mercy  to  the  poorest 
of  the  poor, " 

So  they  knelt  and  prayed  together,  till  the  morn 
ing  sun  was  high, 

For  the  Patriarch's  heart  was  kindled,  and  the 
time  went  quickly  by. 

106 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Troilus  too  had  risen  early,  and  had  said  his 

morning  prayers, 
But  he  said  them  somewhat  coldly,  being  filled 

with  other  cares* 
At  that  moment  he  was  thinking,  while  he 

counted  up  his  store, 
Upon  certain  silver  goblets  he  had  seen  the  day 

before, 
Which  a  silversmith  had  brought  him,  and  had 

hoped  that  he  would  buy* 
They  were  nobly  wrought  and  chiselled,  and  the 

price  indeed  was  high, 
But  he  thought  upon  his  table  they  would  look 

exceeding  fine 
When  his  friends,  the  rich  and  noble,  should 

come  in  with  him  to  dine ; 
Then  how  all  of  them  would  envy,  and  thb 

thought  his  spirit  cheered,  — 
When  a  gentle  knock  aroused  him,  and  the 

Patriarch  appeared. 
Very  bright  his  eyes  were  shining,  and  his  face 

was  all  aglow, 
But  his  voice  was  strange  and  solemn,  when  he 

told  him,  "  I  must  go 

J07 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


To  the  hospital,  my  brother,  and  I  came  here  on 

my  way ; 
If  we  both  could  go  together,  it  would  be  a  happy 

day, 
There  I  find  my  greatest  blessing,  every  morning 

fresh  and  new, 
But  far  greater,  but  far  sweeter  could  I  share  it 

once  with  you," 
How  the  heart  of  Troilus  softened,  as  those  eyes 

upon  him  shone, 
At  their  look  of  earnest  pleading,  at  the  tremor 

in  the  tone ! 
Strange  it  was  that  look  could  melt  him  and  that 

voice  could  change  him  so, 
Calling    back   to   life,  a   moment,  what    had 

withered  long  ago,  — 
Some  old  good  that  stirred  within  him,  often 

spurned  and  thrust  aside. 
But  the  flowers  the  Lord  had  planted,  though 

they  dwindled,  had  not  died ; 
He  was  poor  in  heavenly  treasure,  but  he  loved 

the  Patriarch  still. 
"  I  will  come,"  he  answered  quickly ;  "  you  may 

lead  me  where  you  will," 

J08 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


There  were  looks  and  tones  of  wonder  in  the 

hospital  that  day, 
From  the  rows  of  low  white  couches  where  the 

sick  and  dying  lay, 
As,  with  all  his  train  about  him,  in  his  splendour 

and  his  pride, 

On  he  walked,  the  Bishop  Troilus,  by  the  sim 
ple  Patriarch's  side* 
But  erelong  the  two  were  parted,  for  as  Troilus 

looked  around, 
He  recoiled  in  shrinking  horror  from  each  doleful 

sight  and  sound ; 
While  the  Patriarch  loved  to  linger  for  a  while 

by  every  bed, 
With  his  strong  arms  ever  ready  to  sustain  a 

drooping  head ; 
Happy  in  each  humble  service,  and  forgetting  all 

his  state, 
While  he  thanked  the  Lord  who  sent  him  on 

these  stricken  ones  to  wait. 
How  the  pale  sad  faces  brightened  into  smiles  as 

he  drew  near, 
And  what  loving  words  were  murmured,  faintly 

murmured  in  his  ear  I 

J09 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


"  Does  he  well/*  said  Bishop  Troilus,  as  he  saw 

him  turn  and  go 
From  one  bedside  to  another,  "  does  he  well  to 

stoop  so  low  ?  " 
Yet  had  Troilus  only  known  it,  they  were  not 

the  poor  alone 
Whom  his  brother  served  that  morning,  but  their 

Master  and  his  own. 
There  was  one  but  just  recovered,  light  of  heart, 

though  poor  and  weak, 
With  a  journey  long  before  him,  going  forth  his 

home  to  seek, 
Far  away  among  the  mountains  where  his  wife 

and  children  stayed ; 
But  the  Patriarch's  love  had  found  him  ere  the 

stranger  sought  his  aid, 
Giving  money  for  the  journey,  giving  blessed 

words  of  cheer. 
Then  he  turned,  for  time  was  pressing,  and  a 

sadder  face  lay  near, 
Worn  by  months  of  pain  and  languor;  he  was 

young,  had  once  been  strong, 
He  was  fading  now,  but  slowly,  and  perhaps 

would  suffer  long, 
no 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  the  hundred  wants  of  sickness  who  can 

know  that  has  not  proved  ? 
He  had  wearied  all  about  him,  but  the  Patriarch's 

heart  was  moved ; 
So  he  heard  the  long  complaining  to  which  no 

one  else  gave  heed, 
Then  he  left  him,  soothed  and  peaceful,  with 

enough  for  all  his  need* 
So  with  one  and  with  another  for  a  moment  he 

would  stay, 
At  each  bed  he  left  a  blessing,  and  a  blessing 

brought  away, 

Till  his  purse  grew  light  and  empty,  as  had  hap 
pened  oft  before ; 
Though  he  turned  it  up  and  shook  it,  there  was 

not  one  penny  more. 

Then  he  turned  and  sought  for  Troilus,  who  that 

moment,  as  it  chanced, 
With  a  look  subdued  and  solemn,  stood  and 

gazed,  like  one  entranced, 
On  the  strange,  unearthly  beauty,  on  the  light  of 

perfect  peace 
In  a  woman's  face  before  him ;  she  was  nearing 

her  release,       in 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  a  glory  rested  on  her  from  the  opening  door 

above; 
Yet  one  shadow  marred  its  splendour  when  she 

looked  with  anxious  love 
On  a  little  maid,  her  daughter,  with  a  pretty, 

careworn  face, 
Who  had  brought  two  younger  children,  waiting 

now  for  her  embrace, 
Wondering  why  she  did  not  give  it,  why  so 

deadly  still  she  lay, 
For  they  knew  not,  though  she  knew  it,  she 

would  not  live  out  the  day. 
Said  the  Patriarch :  "  Brother  Troilus,  have  you 

nothing  you  could  give 
To  this  woman  and  her  children,  for  she  has  not 

long  to  live  ? 

And  I  see  her  mind  is  troubled,  and  I  think,  be 
fore  they  part, 
Had  she  something  she  could  leave  them,  it 

would  ease  her  burdened  heart ; 
For  myself,  I  freely  promise  I  will  make  these 

babes  my  care, 
But  to-day  my  purse  is  empty,  so  I  pray  you  not 

to  spare/' 

m 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Oh  I  alas,  poor  Bishop  Troilus  1  how  this  plead 
ing  broke  the  spell 
That  the  woman's  look  had  woven,  and  how 

low  his  spirit  fell ! 
For  he  dearly  loved  his  money,  with  a  passion 

deep  and  blind, 
As  a  scholar  loves  his  learning,  or  a  saint  his 

peace  of  mind. 
But  the  eyes  of  all  were  on  him  at  that  moment, 

and  he  knew 
'Twas  in  hopeful  expectation  of  what  such  a 

saint  would  do ; 
There  were  many  who  had  entered  from  the 

busy  street  to  gaze, 
He  would  not  be  shamed  before  them,  they  should 

still  have  cause  to  praise ; 
But  his  purse  would  have  to  open,  so  he  turned 

and  waved  his  hand 
To  the  priest  who  always  bore  it,  with  a  gesture 

of  command. 
"  For  this  woman  for  her  daughter  and  the  two 

poor  babes/'  said  he, 
44  Lay  clown  thirty  golden  pieces  in  the  Patriarch's 

hand  for  me/' 

8  U3 


BISHOP  TRODLUS 


There  were  none  who  had  not  heard  him,  for  his 

voice  was  loud  and  clear, 
And  a  low,  admiring  murmur  rose  from  all  the 

couches  near, 
While  the  Patriarch  stood  rejoicing  in  the  deed 

his  friend  had  done ; 
By  himself  he  judged  another,  and  he  thought 

the  victory  won. 
For  one  moment  Bishop  Troilus  feels  his  narrow 

heart  expand, 
When  the  maiden  thanks  him  weeping,  and  the 

children  kiss  his  hand, 
And  the  mother,  just  departing,  from  the  pillow 

where  she  lies, 

Turns  one  happy  smile  upon  him,  with  a  bless 
ing  in  her  eyes. 

But  alas !  on  home  returning,  when  the  sacrifice 

was  made, 
When  the  Patriarch's   holy  presence  was  no 

longer  there  to  aid, 
He  did  much  bewail  his  money ;  half  in  anger, 

half  in  pain, 
To  have  parted  in  a  moment  with  what  took  so 

long  to  gain.      n4 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  his  heart  was  in  a  turmoil,  and  a  pain  was 
in  his  head, 

Till  the  raging  turned  to  fever,  and  he  threw  him 
on  his  bed 

In  a  storm  of  angry  passion  that  no  reason  could 
control ; 

For  to  him  to  part  with  money  was  like  parting 
with  his  soul. 

But  he  said  no  word  to  any  of  this  rage  and  in 
ward  strife, 

And  the  priests  who  waited  on  him  were  in  ter 
ror  for  his  life, 

And  as  nothing  made  him  better,  they  took 
counsel,  and  agreed 

That  the  Patriarch,  and  he  only,  was  the  man 
to  meet  their  need; 

So  they  sent  and  humbly  prayed  him  if  to  come 
he  would  be  pleased, 

For  his  friend  the  Bishop  Troilus  was  with  sud 
den  illness  seized. 

In  his  chamber  lay  the  Bishop,  sick  in  body,  sick 

in  mind ; 
But  the  Patriarch,  wise  in  spirit,  had  his  malady 

divined. 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


So  he  came  and  sat  beside  him,  patient  still,  but 

pale  with  grief, 
While  he   made   one   last   endeavour  for  that 

troubled  soul's  relief. 
But  his  friend  was  sore  and  angry,  and  his  words 

he  would  not  hear, 
For  the  presence  now  disturbed  him  that  had 

lately  been  so  dear. 
And  he  lay  with  face  averted,  till  he  heard  the 

Patriarch  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you  back  the  money  that  you 

gave  away  to-day." 
Then  indeed  he  started  wildly,  and  his  eyes  he 

opened  wide, 
And  he  turned  and  faced  his  brother  with  a  joy 

he  could  not  hide ; 
For  with  sudden  hope  he  trembled,  and  it  paled 

his  fevered  cheek ; 
And  the  Patriarch's  heart  was  sinking,  but  he 

still  went  on  to  speak : 
44  When  I  asked  your  help  this  morning,  I  had 

nothing  of  my  own, 
So  I  left  to  you  the  blessing  which  had  else  been 

mine  alone ; 

116 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


For  those  three  dear  orphan  children  I  had  gladly 

done  the  whole, 
So  their  mother  up  in  heaven  might  be  praying 

for  my  soul. 
And  I  now  have  come  to  ask  you  if  this  grace 

you  will  resign, — 
Will  you  take  again  the  money,  and  let  your  good 

deed  be  mine  ? 
Yet  I  pray  you  to  consider,  ere  you  grant  it  or 

refuse, 
What  a  great  and  heavenly  treasure  I  shall  win 

and  you  will  lose; 
For  indeed  I  would  not  wrong  you,  though  to  me 

the  gain  be  great. 
So  then  do  not  answer  rashly,  —  there  is  time, 

we  both  can  wait, 
And  't  were  well  to  think  a  little  on  the  words 

our  Master  said, 
How  He  left  the  poor  behind,  that  we  might 

serve  them  in  His  stead ; 
And  whatever  help  we  grant  them,  be  it  great  or 

be  it  small, 
To  our  blessed  Lord  we  give  it,  to  our  Lord,  who 

gave  us  all." 

JI7 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


len  made  answer  Bishop  Troilus,  "As  for 

what  you  now  propose, 
it  please  you  I  am  ready,  and  the  bargain  we 

can  close. 

lere  are  many  kinds  of  service,  and  each  need 
ful  in  its  way, 
id  I  think  the  Lord  has  set  me  in  His  church 

to  preach  and  pray, 
id  to  save  the  souls  that  perish,  and  to  teach 

men  how  to  live, 
hile  your  own  vocation,  brother,  is  with  open 

hand  to  give, 
t  not  one  defraud  the  other,  take  your  part  and 

leave  me  mine, 
r  howe'er  we  may  divide  it,  all  the  service  is 

divine. 
t  us  feed  God's  flock  together,  for  His  needy 

children  care, 
le  souls,  and  you  the  bodies,  so  the  burden  we 

may  share." 
fhen  so  be  it,"  said  the  other,  but  his  voice 

was  low  and  grave, 
id  he  prayed  to  God  in  silence  for  the  soul  he 

could  not  save. 


"  We  must  write  it  all  in  order,  we  must  sign 

and  seal  it  too, 
So  that  mine  may  be  the  blessing,  while  the  gold 

remains  with  you/* 

So  they  wrote  a  contract  solemn,  to  which  each 
one  signed  his  name, 

In  which  he,  the  Bishop  Troilus,  did  relinquish 
every  claim 

To  whatever  reward  or  merit  his  one  pious  deed 
had  earned, 

Since  the  thirty  golden  pieces  to  his  hand  had 
been  returned. 

Then  the  Patriarch  counted  slowly  all  the  pieces, 
one  by  one, 

In  the  open  hand  of  Troilus,  and  his  last  attempt 
was  done. 

All  had  failed,  and  heavy-hearted  from  that  cham 
ber  forth  he  went, 

While  his  friend  lay  still  and  smiling  in  the  full 
ness  of  content ; 

For  the  fever  now  had  left  him,  and  't  was  sweet 
to  lie  and  rest, 

With  no  more  a  thorn  to  vex  him  in  his  smooth, 
untroubled  breast. 

119 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


With  a  dreamy  satisfaction  he  was  thinking  all 

the  while 
How  those  pretty  shining  pieces  would  increase 

the  golden  pile 
In  that  chest  of  hoarded  treasure  that  already  held 

so  much ; 
And  he  laid  his  hand  upon  them  with  a  fond 

caressing  touch. 
But  his  thoughts  began  to  wander,  and  his  eyes 

were  closing  soon, 
In  the  drowsy  heat  and  stillness  of  the  summer 

afternoon. 

Then  a  dream  was  sent  to  bless  him,  as  in  quiet 

sleep  he  lay, 

And  it  bore  him  in  a  vision  to  the  country  far  away ; 
And  he  saw  the  holy  city,  where  the  saints  and 

angels  dwell ; 
Of  its  glory,  of  its  beauty,  mortal  tongue  can 

never  tell. 
There  were  palm-trees  growing  stately  by  the 

water,  crystal  clear ; 
There  was  music  ever  swelling,  sometimes  far 

and  sometimes  near, 

J20 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


As  it  rose  in  mystic  cadence  from  the  hearts  that 

overflowed 
With  the  joy  that  reigns  forever  in  their  beautiful 

abode. 
And  the  people  of  that  city  whom  he  met  along 

the  way 
On  the  shining  golden  pavement,  oh,  how  full  of 

peace  were  they! 

For  he  thought  some  heavenly  vision  shone  for 
ever  in  their  sight, 
And  he  looked  where  they  were  gazing,  but  he 

only  saw  the  light 
As  it  flooded  all  with  glory,  and  the  air  it  seemed 

to  fill; 
But  he  saw  not  what  they  looked  on,  for  his  eyes 

were  mortal  still. 
Now  among  those  lighted  faces  there  were  some 

he  knew  before, 
Of  the  poor  to  whom  so  often  he  had  closed  his 

heart  and  door; 
Such  as  in  the  heavenly  city  he  had  little  thought 

to  find, 
For  the  sad  and  sick  and  needy  had  been  never 

to  his  mind : 

12J 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Of  the  rich  were  not  so  many,  yet  a  few  of  these 

beside, 
Who  by  deeds  of   love  and  mercy  had  their 

Master  glorified. 
And  in  perfect  health  and  beauty,  among  all  that 

bright  array, 
Was  the  woman  he  saw  dying  in  the  hospital 

that  day. 

All  along  the  road  he  travelled,  to  the  left  and  to 

the  right, 
Rose  the  palaces  they  dwelt  in,  each  a  mansion 

of  delight, 
But  all  varying  in  their  beauty,  far  away  as  eye 

could  reach, 
With  a  name  in  golden  letters,  high  above  the 

door  of  each. 

And  sweet  faces  smiled  upon  him,  from  the  win 
dows  here  and  there, 
Gentle  faces  free  forever  from  the  shade  of  earthly 

care; 
And  he  heard  the  happy  voices  of  the  children 

as  they  played 


122 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


In  the  fair  and  peaceful  gardens,  where  the  roses 

never  fade ; 
And  the  things  he  left  behind  him  seemed  so  very 

poor  and  small, 
That  he  wondered,  in  that  glory,  why  men  cared 

for  them  at  all. 

But  oh,  wonder  of  all  wonders,  when  he  saw  a 

name  that  shone 
O'er  a  high  and  arching  doorway,  yes,  a  name 

that  was  his  own ! 
Could  it  be  his  eyes  deceived  him  ?  No,  he  read 

it  o'er  and  o'er ; 
"This,"  it  said,  "of  Bishop  Troilus  is  the  home 

forevermore." 
Oh  the  beauty  of  that  palace,  with  such  light  and 

splendour  filled, 
That  he  thought  the  clouds  of  sunset  had  been 

hewn  its  walls  to  gild ; 
And  the  golden  door  stood  open,  he  could  catch 

a  glimpse  within 
Of  the  vast  illumined  chambers  where  no  foot 

had  ever  been. 


123 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


He  could  only  gaze  bewildered,  for  the  wonder 
was  too  great, 

And  the  joy  so  poured  upon  him  he  could  hardly 
bear  the  weight. 

Then  he  took  one  step  toward  it,  but  a  servant 
of  the  King 

Who  from  far-off  earth  that  morning  had  re 
turned  on  busy  wing, 

And  was  bearing  gifts  and  tokens  from  the  scat 
tered  church  below, 

Came  and  passed  and  stood  before  him,  in  the 
courtyard's  golden  glow. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  companions,  for  a  few  had 

gathered  near, 
And  his  words  fell  hard  and  heavy  on  the  Bishop's 

listening  ear,  — 
14  We  must  cancel  that  inscription  from  the  stone, 

and  write  thereon 
That  Troilus  hath  this  palace  sold  unto   the 

Patriarch  John, 
And  that  thirty  golden  pieces  were  the  price  that 

he  received." 


J24 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Up  then  started  Bishop  Troilus,  for  his  soul  was 

sorely  grieved, 
And  he  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  awoke 

in  his  dismay, 
With  his  hand  upon  the  money  dose  beside  him 

where  he  lay. 

Now  the  long  bright  day  was  over ;  as  he  saw 
the  sun  descend,  — 

"  Weary  day,"  the  Patriarch  thought  it ;  he  was 
glad  to  see  it  end. 

He  was  walking  in  his  garden  where  the  fresh 
ening  shadows  lay, 

And  the  flowers  that  drooped  at  noontime  stood 
erect  in  beauty  gay ; 

But  their  brightness  could  not  cheer  him,  and  he 
bent  his  head  and  sighed, 

For  he  thought,  with  wondering  sadness,  that  the 
Lord  his  prayer  denied. 

Then  he  heard  a  step  behind  him,  and  he  looked; 

but  who  was  there, 
Wild  of  look,  like  one  who  struggled  with  a  pain 

he  could  not  bear  ? 

125 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


Could  it  be  the  stately  Bishop?    Yes,  but  oh, 

how  changed  to  see ! 
And  he  said  with  tears  and  trembling,  "  O  my 

brother,  pray  for  me ! " 
How  the  Patriarch's  heart  rebounded  from  the 

weight  that  on  it  pressed, 
At  the  change  so  deep  and  sudden,   in  those 

broken  words  expressed ! 
How  his  cheek  grew  red  with  gladness,  how  it 

smoothed  his  troubled  brow! 
44  God  forgive  me  if  I  doubted,  all  my  prayers 

are  answered  now/' 

44  Come/'  he  said,  "  my  brother  Troilus,  sit  be 
side  me,  tell  me  all ; " 

And  he  led  him,  pale  and  helpless,  to  a  seat  be 
side  the  wall. 

And  there  Troilus,  clinging  closely  to  that  strong 
and  helpful  hand, 

Trusting  in  the  heart  that  loved  him  and  his 
thoughts  could  understand, 

Told  the  story  of  his  vision  to  his  awed  and 
listening  friend,  — 

All  that  dream  of  light  and  glory,  with  its  sad, 
unlooked-for  end : 

J26 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


But  his  voice,  which  trembled  ever,  wellnigh 

failed  him  when  he  told 
Of  the  horror  of  that  waking,  with  his  hand 

upon  the  gold ; 
When  his  eyes,  long  blind,  were  opened,  and  he 

saw  the  wreck  within, 
And  one  fearful  moment  showed  him  what  his 

wasted  life  had  been. 
"Now,"  he  said,  "my  courage  fails  me  when  I 

think  to  mend  my  ways. 
I  have  wasted  all  God  gave  me,  —  mind,  and 

strength,  and  length  of  days, — 
And  the  gold  I  gave  my  soul  for  pulls  me  down 
ward  with  its  weight ; 
Help  me  if  you  can,  oh,  help  me !     Say  it  is  not 

yet  too  late." 
And  he  looked   with  eyes  beseeching   at   the 

Patriarch,  who  replied 
With  a  smile  that  fell  like  sunshine  on  the  faint 

heart  by  his  side,  — 

44  What !  too  late  for  God's  forgiveness,  when  He 

calls  you  to  repent  ? 
Twas  to  save  you,  not  to  lose  you,  that  the 

blessed  dream  was  sent; 

J27 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


'T  is  His  help,  not  mine,  my  brother,  you  are 

needing,  and  you  know, 
If  we  ask  it,  He  will  give  it,  for  Himself  has  told 

us  so. 
And  the  prodigal  returning  shall  be  welcomed 

all  the  more 
If  the  years  were  long  and  many  since  he  left  his 

Father's  door." 

"  But,"  said  Troilus,  "  I  am  aged,  and  my  man 
hood's  strength  is  past ; 
After  such  a  life  ungodly,  can  I  hope  for  grace  at 

last?" 
"Never  fear,"  the  Patriarch  answered, " there  is 

joy  in  heaven  to-day, 
And  they  ask  not  in  their  gladness  if  your  hair 

be  black  or  gray." 

So  then  Troilus  gathered  courage,  and  that  night, 

by  deed  and  word, 
Gave  himself  and  all  his  substance  to  the  service 

of  the  Lord; 
Yet  in  his  own  strength  mistrusting,  he  implored 

his  friend  anew 
With  his  daily  prayer  to  aid  him,  and  he  promised 

so  to  do. 

J28 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


And  the  thirty  golden  pieces  he  returned  to  him 

again, 
Yes,  and  other  thirty  with  them,  for  the  change 

was  not  in  vain* 

Then  he  left  the  past  behind  him,  and  a  better 

life  began ; 
From  that  evening  in  the  garden  he  became 

another  man» 
There  was  no  more  train  about  him  when  he 

walked  the  city  through, 
For  the  priests  who  once  attended  now  had  better 

work  to  do ; 

And  the  ladies  cared  no  longer  from  their  bal 
conies  to  lean, 
When  of  worldly  pomp  and  splendour  there  was 

nothing  to  be  seen. 
For  the  cross  of  many  jewels  on  his  bosom  shone 

no  more, 
Having  gone  on  works  of  mercy  to  increase  his 

heavenly  store, 
But  the  poor  and  needy  sought  him;  he  was 

now  their  faithful  friend, 
And  they  knew,  whatever  befell  them,  on  his  love 

they  might  depend. 

9  129 


BISHOP  TROILUS 


So  his  closing  days  were  happy,  after  years  of 

sordid  care, 
For  no  gain  can  bring  contentment  till  the  poor 

have  had  their  share ; 
And  he  lightened  many  a  burden,  and  he  righted 

many  a  wrong, 
And  the  wealth  became  a  blessing  that  had  been 

a  curse  so  long ; 
And  his  secret  hoard  was  scattered,  and  men 

said  that  he  died  poor, 
But  he  found  great  wealth  in  heaven  at  the  end, 

we  may  be  sure. 


J30 


Crosses  on  the  Qttall 


13J 


THIS  beautiful  legend  has  for  me  a  most  peculiar 
interest,  owing  to  the  circumstances  under  which  I 
first  heard  it.  It  was  taught  to  me  by  a  very  dear 
young  friend  whom  I  had  known  and  loved  from  his 
infancy,  —  Piero,  the  only  surviving  child  of  Count 
Giuseppe  Pasolini  Zanelli  of  Faenza.  It  was  only  last 
October — eight  months  ago — and  we  were  all  staying 
together  in  the  home  of  his  beloved  and  still  beautiful 
grandmother,  at  Bassano,  in  the  Veneto.  It  was  the 
last  evening  that  we  expected  to  pass  together,  and 
Pierino  (we  had  never  been  able  to  give  up  calling  him 
by  that  childish  diminutive)  brought  a  book  with  him, 
a  collection  of  popular  legends  compiled  by  De  Guber- 
natis,  and  said  that  he  had  a  story  to  read  us.  It  was 
"  The  Crosses  on  the  Wall,"  and  it  has  always  seemed 
to  me  as  though  he  read  it  on  that  particular  evening 
to  prepare  us  for  what  was  to  come.  For  some  months 
he  had  been  not  quite  so  strong  as  usual,  yet  no  one 
felt  any  particular  apprehension,  until  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  November  he  died,  almost  without  warning. 
He  was  twenty-two  years  old,  of  a  very  beautiful 
character,  —  so  good  that  we  ought  to  have  known  he 
was  not  for  us. 

With  him  two  great  and  ancient  families  come  to  an 
end,  —  the  Pasolini-Zanelli  of  Faenza,  and  the  Baroni- 
Semitecolo  of  Bassano :  these  last  are  the  only  descend 
ants  of  that  Semitecolo  who  worked  in  mosaic  at 
Torcello, 


132 


Cbe  Crosses  on  the  <flall 

H  Legend  of  primiero 


COME,  children,  listen  to  what  I  tell, 
For  my  words  are  wise  to-day : 
From  Primiero  among  the  hills 
Was  the  legend  brought  away. 

And  Primiero  among  the  hills 

Is  a  little  world  apart, 

Where  is  much  to  love  and  much  to  learn, 

If  you  have  a  willing  heart. 

It  lies  on  high,  like  a  stranded  ship, 
From  the  parted  wave  of  time ; 
Not  far  from  the  troubled  world  we  know, 
But  the  way  is  hard  to  climb. 

For  the  mountains  rise  and  close  it  in, 
With  their  walls  of  green  and  gray ; 
With  crag  and  forest  and  smooth-worn  cliff, 
Where  the  clouds  alone  can  stray. 

133 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

And  when  a  house  they  have  builded  there, 
If  a  blessing  they  would  win, 
Above  the  door  do  they  write  a  prayer, 
That  Christ  may  dwell  therein. 

And  I  think,  throughout  the  ancient  town, 
On  its  steep  ascending  road, 
In  many  a  heart,  in  many  a  home, 
Has  He  taken  His  abode. 

And  when  a  burden  is  hard  to  bear  — 
And  such  burdens  come  to  all  — 
They  tell  the  story  I  'm  telling  now, 
Of  the  crosses  on  the  wall. 

'T  is  a  pearl  of  wisdom,  gathered  far 
In  the  dim  and  distant  past ; 
But  ever  needed,  but  ever  new, 
As  long  as  the  world  shall  last. 

For  never  has  been  since  earth  was  made, 

And  surely  shall  never  be, 

A  man  so  happy  or  wise  or  great, 

He  might  from  the  cross  be  free. 

J34 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

The  tale  it  is  of  a  widow  poor, 

And  by  trouble  sorely  pressed; 

Of  how,  through  sorrow  and  many  tears, 

At  the  end  her  soul  was  blest. 

She  had  not  been  always  poor  and  sad, 
For  her  early  years  were  bright, 
With  a  happy  home,  and  with  parents  kind, 
And  herself  their  hearts'  delight ! 

A  mother's  darling,  a  father's  pride, 
She  was  fair  in  form  and  face ; 
A  sunny  creature,  a  joy  to  all, 
For  her  sweet  and  winning  grace* 

Then,  early  married  to  one  she  loved, 
She  had  still  been  shielded  well ; 
For  her  he  laboured,  for  her  he  thought, 
And  on  her  no  burden  fell* 

She  worked,  indeed ;  but  what  work  was  hers 
Through  the  short  and  happy  hours  ? 
To  pluck  the  fruit  from  her  orchard  trees, 
Or  to  tend  the  garden  flowers ; 

J35 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

To  sit  and  spin,  and  to  sing  the  while 
In  her  porch  with  roses  gay ; 
To  spread  the  table  with  plenty  piled, 
And  to  watch  the  children  play. 

Their  home  was  a  little  nest  of  peace ; 
*T  was  a  mile  beyond  the  town, 
In  that  sheltered  valley,  green  with  woods, 
Where  the  river  murmurs  down. 

And  she  never  dreamed  of  change  to  come, 
(Though  a  change  must  all  expect,) 
Till  the  blow,  like  lightning,  on  her  fell, 
And  her  happy  life  was  wrecked. 

But  who  could  have  thought  the  man  would  die  ? 
There  were  few  so  strong  as  he ! 
From  his  forest  work  they  bore  him  home, 
Struck  dead  by  a  falling  tree. 

A  petted  child,  and  a  wife  beloved, 

She  had  hardly  sorrow  known, 

Till  the  strong,  brave  man  was  borne  away, 

And  she  faced  the  world  alone. 

136 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

Alone,  with  a  babe  too  young  to  speak, 

And  with  other  children  five : 

"  Oh,  why,"  she  asked,  "are  the  strong  removed 

And  the  feeble  left  alive  ?  " 

But  where  is  the  good  of  asking  <whyt 
When  our  helpers  disappear  ? 
That  question  never  was  answered  yet, 
And  it  never  will  be,  here. 

There  was  little  time  to  sit  and  weep ; 
She  must  rise,  and  bear  the  strain ; 
Alone  she  stood,  with  the  home  to  keep, 
And  the  children's  bread  to  gain. 

The  best  of  herself  had  gone  with  him; 
She  had  no  more  faith  nor  trust : 
She  could  not  bow  to  the  Lord's  decree, 
For  she  felt  it  all  unjust. 

The  good  Lord  cares  for  a  widow's  need, 
But  on  Him  she  did  not  call. 
She  laboured  hard,  and  she  fought  with  fate, 
And  they  lived  —  but  that  was  all. 

J37 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

She  fought  her  battle  with  fate,  and  failed, 
As  many  have  failed  before ; 
If  against  the  thorns  we  push  and  press, 
They  will  only  prick  the  more. 

She  could  not  bear  with  the  children  now, 
And  she  called  them  rude  and  wild ; 
Forgetting  quite,  in  her  sullen  grief, 
That  she  had  been  once  a  child. 

Yes,  wild  they  were ;  and  like  all  wild  things 
They  were  light  and  swift  and  strong ; 
And  her  poor,  sick  spirit  turned  away 
From  the  gay,  unruly  throng* 

They  swam  the  river,  they  climbed  the  trees, 
They  were  full  of  life  and  play ; 
But  oft,  when  their  mother's  voice  they  heard, 
They  hid  from  her  sight  away. 

They  did  not  love  her,  and  that  she  knew, 
And  of  that  she  oft  complained ; 
But  not  by  threats  nor  by  angry  words 
Could  the  children's  love  be  gained. 

138 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

Respect  and  honour  we  may  command ; 
They  will  come  at  duty's  call : 
But  love,  the  beautiful  thornless  rose, 
Grows  wild,  when  it  grows  at  all. 

And  she  grew  bitter,  as  time  went  on, 
Grew  bitter  and  hard  and  sore, 
Till  one  day  she  cried  in  her  despair, 
"  I  can  bear  my  life  no  more ! 

44  Look  down  from  Heaven,  good  Lord,  and  see 

And  pity  my  cruel  fate ! 

Oh,  come,  and  in  mercy  take  away 

My  burden,  for  't  is  too  great ! 

"  My  heart  is  breaking  with  all  its  load, 
And  I  feel  my  life  decline ; 
Never  I  think  did  the  woman  live 
Who  has  borne  a  cross  like  mine ! " 

To  her  cry  for  help  an  answer  came, 
And  solemn  it  was,  and  strange ! 
For  a  silence  deep  around  her  fell, 
And  the  place  seemed  all  to  change. 

139 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

She  stood  in  a  sad  and  sombre  room, 
Where  from  ceiling  down  to  floor, 
Along  the  wall  and  on  every  side, 
There  were  crosses  —  nothing  more. 

There  were  crosses  old,  and  crosses  new, 
There  were  crosses  large  and  small ; 
And  in  their  midst  there  was  One  who  stood 
As  the  Master  of  them  all. 

Before  His  presence  her  eyes  dropped  low, 
And  her  wild  complaining  died ; 
For  she  knew  the  cross  that  He  had  borne 
Was  greater  than  all  beside. 

And  He  bade  her  choose,  and  take  away, 
From  among  the  many  there, 
Another  cross,  in  exchange  for  hers, 
That  she  found  too  great  to  bear. 

She  looked  for  those  that  were  least  in  size, 
And  she  quickly  lifted  one ; 
But  oh,  't  was  heavy,  and  pained  her  more 
Than  her  own  had  ever  done ! 

J40 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

She  laid  it  back  with  a  trembling  hand  - 
"  And  whose  cross  is  that  ?  "  she  cried ; 
"  For  heavier  't  is  than  even  mine ! " 
And  a  solemn  voice  replied : 

'  That  cross  belongs  to  a  maiden  young, 
But  of  youth  she  little  knows ; 
For  the  days  to  her  are  days  of  pain, 
And  the  night  brings  scant  repose. 

44  A  helpless,  suffering,  useless  thing ! 
And  her  pain  will  never  cease, 
Till  death  in  pity  will  come  one  day, 
And  her  troubles  end  in  peace. 

44  She  never  has  walked  the  pleasant  fields, 
Nor  has  sat  beneath  the  trees ; 
The  hospital  wall  that  shuts  her  in 
Is  the  only  world  she  sees. 

44  She  has  no  mother,  she  has  no  home, 
And  in  strangers'  hands  she  lies ; 
With  none  to  care  for  her  while  she  lives, 
Nor  weep  for  her  when  she  dies." 

J41 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

"  But  why  is  the  cross  so  small,  my  Lord, 
And  why  does  her  heart  not  break  ?  " 
44  She  counts  it  little/'  the  answer  came , 
"  For  she  bears  it  for  my  sake." 

The  widow  blushed  with  a  sudden  shame; 
To  her  eyes  the  tears  arose : 
She  dried  them  soon,  and  again  she  turned, 
And  another  cross  she  chose. 

It  fell  from  her  hand  against  the  wall, 
And  she  let  it  there  remain : 
4  That  cross  shall  never  be  mine,"  she  said, 
'  Though  I  take  my  own  again  I 

44  And  whose  is  this  that  I  cannot  hold  ? 
For  it  seems  to  burn  my  hand  I 
And  never,  I  think,  was  heart  so  strong 
That  could  such  a  weight  withstand." 

"  The  cross  it  is  of  a  gentle  wife, 
And  she  wears  it  all  unseen ; 
With  early  sorrow  her  hair  is  white, 
But  she  keeps  a  smile  serene. 

J42 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

44  She  gave  her  heart  to  an  evil  man, 
And  she  thought  him  good  and  true ; 
And  long  she  trusted  and  long  believed, 
But  at  last  the  truth  she  knew. 

"  She  knows  that  his  soul  is  stained  with  crime, 
But  the  worst  she  still  conceals ; 
Abuse  and  terror  her  sole  reward, 
And  the  Lord  knows  what  she  feels ! 

44  She  cannot  leave  him,  for  love  dies  hard, 
And  her  children  bear  his  name ; 
But  she  prays  for  grace,  to  keep  and  guard 
Their  innocent  lives  from  shame. 

44  She  trembles  oft  when  his  step  she  hears 
On  a  lonely  winter  night ; 
And  she  hides  her  frightened  babes  afar 
From  their  cruel  father's  sight. 

44  And  she  dares  not  even  hope  for  death, 
Though  his  hand  might  set  her  free : 
'T  were  well  for  her  in  the  grave  to  rest ; 
But  where  would  the  children  be  ?  " 

143 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

The  widow  shuddered,  her  face  grew  pale, 
And  she  no  more  turned  to  look: 
She  reached  her  hand  to  the  wall  near  by, 
And  a  cross  by  chance  she  took. 

'Twas  not  so  large  as  the  first  had  been, 
But  it  seemed  a  fearful  weight ! 
"And  whose  am  I  holding  now  ?  "  she  asked, 
For  it  did  not  look  so  great. 

"  A  mother's  cross  is  the  one  you  bear," 
So  the  voice  in  answer  said, 
"  And  she  once  had  children  six  like  you ; 
But  her  children  all  are  dead. 

"  She  has  all  besides  that  earth  can  give ; 
She  has  friends  and  wealth  to  spare, 
And  house  and  land —  but  she  counts  them  not, 
For  the  children  are  not  there. 

"  Time  passes  slowly,  and  she  grows  old; 
But  she  may  not  yet  depart. 
In  lonely  splendour  she  counts  the  years, 
With  an  empty,  hungry  heart. 

144 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

44  And  she  knows  by  whom  the  cross  was  sent, 
And  she  tries  her  head  to  bow ; 
But  six  green  mounds  by  the  churchyard  wall 
Are  the  most  she  cares  for  now/* 

The  widow  thought  of  her  own  wild  brood, 
And  she  felt  a  creeping  chill : 
And,  "  Oh,  give  me  back  my  cross ! "   she  said, 
44 1  will  keep  and  bear  it  still. 

44  Forgive  me,  "Lord"  (and  with  that  she  knelt, 
And  for  very  shame  she  wept). 
44 1  know  my  sin,  that  I  could  not  bow, 
Nor  Thy  holy  will  accept. 

44  Oh,  give  me  patience,  for  life  is  hard ; 
And  the  daily  strength  I  need ! 
And  by  Thy  grace  I  will  try  to  bear 
The  burden  for  me  decreed. 

"Ill  change  my  ways  with  the  children  now, 
Though  they  give  me  added  cares. 
Poor  babes !  I  know,  if  they  love  me  not, 
That  the  blame  is  mine,  not  theirs ! " 

JO  145 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

She  kept  her  word  as  the  weeks  went  on, 
And  she  fought  with  fate  no  more : 
'Twas  now  with  a  patient,  humble  heart 
That  her  daily  cross  she  bore, 

The  children  wondered  to  see  her  change 
So  greatly  in  look  and  speech ! 
She  met  them  now  with  a  smile  so  kind, 
And  a  gentle  word  for  each. 

And  soon  they  learned,  from  her  altered  ways, 
What  her  words  had  vainly  taught; 
Their  love,  that  long  she  had  claimed  in  vain, 
Came  back  to  her  all  unsought. 

There  were  merry  shouts  and  dancing  feet, 
When  the  mother  came  in  sight ; 
There  were  little  arms  around  her  thrown, 
There  were  eyes  with  joy  alight. 

With  love  for  teacher,  they  learned  to  help, 
There  was  work  for  fingers  small : 
Her  heart  grew  soft  like  the  earth  in  spring, 
And  she  thanked  the  Lord  for  all  I 

146 


THE  CROSSES  ON  THE  WALL 

Her  girls  so  pretty,  her  boys  so  brave, 
And  so  helpful  all  and  kind  1 
She  wondered  often,  and  thought  with  shame 
Of  how  she  had  once  repined. 

For  in  their  presence  she  oft  forgot 
Her  burden  of  want  and  care, 
Forgot  he*  trouble  —  forgot,  almost, 
That  she  had  a  cross  to  bear ! 


J47 


Suora  JMarianna 


J49 


Suora  JMartatina 

T  ITTLE  children,  will  you  listen  to  a  simple 

•"      tale  of  mine, 

That  I  learned  at  San  Marcello,  in  the  Tuscan 

Apennine, 
From  an  aged,  saintly  woman,  gone  to  heaven 

long  ago  ? 
It  has  helped  me  on  my  journey,  and  as  yet  you 

cannot  know 

Half  the  wisdom  stored  within  it,  nor  the  com 
fort  it  can  give ; 
But  still,  try  and  not  forget  it !    You  will  need  it 

if  you  live, 
And  some  day,  when  life  is  waning  and  your 

hands  begin  to  tire, 
You  will  think  of  Marianna,  and  her  vision  by 

the  fire. 

In  a  convent,  old  and  quiet,  near  a  little  country 

town, 
On  a  chestnut-shaded  hillside,  to  the  river  sloping 

down, 
Dwelt  a  few  of  those  good  sisters  who  go  out 

among  the  poor, 

J5J 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


Who  must  labour  late  and  early,  and   much 

weariness  endure ; 
And  the  one  who  did  in  patience  and  in  all  good 

works  excel 
Was  the  Sister  Marianna,  she  whose  story  now 

I  tell 

She  was  ever  kind  and  willing,  for  each  heavy 

task  prepared : 
No  one  ever  thought  to  spare  her,  and  herself 

she  never  spared. 
All  unpraised  and  all  unnoticed,  bearing  burdens 

not  her  own, 
Yet  she  lived  as  rich  and  happy  as  a  queen  upon 

her  throne ! 

She  was  rich,  though  few  would  think  it ;  for 

God  gave  her  grace  to  choose, 
Not  the  world's  deceitful  riches,  but  the  wealth 

one  cannot  lose. 
There  are  many  heap  up  treasure,  but  it  is  not 

every  one 
Who  will  take  his  treasure  with  him  when  his 

earthly  life  is  done. 

J52 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


Was  she  beautiful  ?   I  know  not.    She  had  eyes 

of  peaceful  light, 
And  her  face  looked  sweet  and  blooming  in  its 

frame  of  linen  white. 
To  the  sick  and  heavy-hearted  she  was  pleasant 

to  behold, 
And  she  seemed  a  heavenly  vision  to  the  feeble 

and  the  old. 

She  was  happy  when  she  wandered  up  the  wan 
dering  mountain  road, 
Bearing  food  and  warmth  and  blessing  to  some 

desolate  abode, 
Though  the  ice-cold  winds  were  blowing  and 

her  woman's  strength  was  tried ; 
For  she  knew  who  walked  there  with  her,  in 

her  heart  and  by  her  side. 
She  was  happy  —  oh,  so  happy !  —  in  her  little 

whitewashed  cell 
Looking  out  among  the  branches,  where  they 

gave  her  leave  to  dwell 
In  her  scanty  hours  of  leisure;  for  there,  looking 

from  the  wall, 
Were  the  dear  and  holy  faces  that  she  loved  the 

best  of  all. 

J53 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


T  was  an  old  and  faded  picture,  poorly  painted 
at  the  best, 

Of  Our  Lord,  the  Holy  Infant,  in  His  Mother's 
arms  at  rest. 

But  her  faith  and  loving  fancy  had  a  glory  to  it 
lent, 

And  the  faces  that  she  saw  there  were  not  what 
the  artist  meant. 

And  the  wooden  shelf  before  it  she  would  often 
times  adorn 

With  the  buttercup  and  bluebell,  and  the  wild 
rose  from  the  thorn, 

Which  she  gathered,  when  returning,  while  the 
morning  dew  was  bright, 

From  some  home,  remote  and  lonely,  where  she 
watched  the  sick  by  night. 

So  her  life  was  full  of  sunshine,  for  in  toiling  for 
the  Lord 

She  had  found  the  hidden  sweetness  that  in  com 
mon  things  lies  stored : 

He  has  strewn  the  earth  with  flowers,  and  each 
eye  their  brightness  sees ; 

But  He  filled  their  cups  with  honey,  for  His 
humble  working  bees. 

154 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


But  there  came  a  time — poor  sister  I  —  when  her 

rosy  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  her  eyes,  with  all  their  sunlight,  seemed  to 

smile  as  through  a  veil ; 
And  her  step  was  weak  and  heavy,  as  she  trod 

the  steep  ascent, 
Where  through  weeks  of  wintry  weather  to  her 

loving  work  she  went. 
T  was  a  foot-path,  lone  and  narrow,  winding 

up  among  the  trees, 
And  't  was  hard  to  trace  in  winter,  when  the 

slippery  ground  would  freeze, 
And  the  snow  fall  thick  above  it,  hiding  every 

sign  and  mark ; 
But  she  went  that  way  so  often  she  could  climb 

it  in  the  dark ! 
'T  was  to  nurse  a  poor  young  mother,  by  fierce 

malady  assailed, 
That  she  made  the  daily  journey,  and  she  never 

once  had  failed. 
Now  the  short  sharp  days  were  over,  and  the 

spring  had  just  begun ; 
Every  morn  the  light  came  sooner,  and  more 

strength  was  in  the  sun. 

155 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


All  around  the  grass  was  springing,  and  its  ten 
der  verdure  spread, 

Mid  the  empty  burrs  of  chestnuts,  and  the  old 
leaves,  brown  and  dead, 

Low  and  small,  but  creeping,  creeping  till  it  al 
most  touched  the  edge 

Of  the  daily  lessening  snow-drifts,  under  rock 
or  thorny  hedge. 

From  the  wreck  of  last  year's  autumn  life 
awakened,  strong  and  new, 

And  the  buds  were  crowding  upward,  though  as 
yet  the  flowers  were  few. 

Many  nights  had  she  been  watching,  and  with 
little  rest  by  day, 

For  her  heart  was  in  the  chamber  where  that 
helpless  woman  lay ; 

There  the  flame  of  life  she  cherished,  when  it 
almost  ceased  to  burn, 

Praying  God  to  help  and  keep  them  till  the  hus 
band  should  return. 

'Twas  the  old  and  common  story,  such  as  all  of 
us  can  hear, 

156 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


If  we  care  to,  in  the  mountains,  every  day 

throughout  the  year ! 
She  who  languished,  weak  and  wasting,  in  the 

garret  chamber  there, 
Had  been  once  as  strong  and  happy  as  the  wild 

birds  in  the  air. 
She  had  been  a  country  beauty,  for  the  boys  to 

serenade; 
And  the  poets  sang  about  her,  in  the  simple 

rhymes  they  made, 
And  with  glowing  words  compared  her  to  the 

lilies  as  they  grew, 
Or  to  stars,  or  budding  roses,  as  their  manner  is 

to  do. 
Then  the  man  who  played  at  weddings  with 

his  ancient  violin, 
With  his  sad,  impassioned  singing,  had  contrived 

her  heart  to  win ; 
And  one  brilliant  April  morning  he  had  brought 

her  home,  a  bride, 

To  his  farm  and  low-built  cottage  on  the  moun 
tain's  terraced  side. 
'T  was  a  poor,  rough  home  to  look  at,  and  from 

neighbours  far  away, 

J57 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


But  with  love  and  health  and  music  there  was 

much  to  make  it  gay* 
They  were  happy,  careless  people,  and   they 

thought  not  to  complain, 
Though  the  door  were  cracked  and  broken,  or 

the  roof  let  in  the  rain : 
They  could  pile  the  fire  with  branches,  while  the 

winter  storms  swept  by ; 
For  the  rest,  their  life  was  mostly  out  beneath 

the  open  sky. 

Time  had  come,  and  brought  its  changes,  —  sun 
shine  first,  and  then  the  shade, 

Frost  untimely,  chestnuts  blighted.  Sickness 
came,  and  debts  were  made ; 

Fields  were  sold,  alas,  to  pay  them;  yet  their 
troubles  did  not  cease, 

And  the  poor  man's  heart  was  troubled  thus  to 
see  his  land  decrease ! 

Fields  were  gone,  and  bread  was  wanting,  for 
there  now  were  children  small ; 

Much  he  loved  them,  much  he  laboured  —  but 
he  could  not  feed  them  all. 


J58 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


So  he  left  them,  heavy-hearted,  and  his  fortune 

went  to  try 
In  the  low  Maremma  country,  where  men  gain 

or  where  they  die, 
With  its  soft  and  treacherous  beauty,  with  its 

fever-laden  air ; 
But  as  yet  the  fever  spared  him,  and  they  hoped 

it  yet  would  spare. 
'T  was  a  long  and  cruel  winter  in  the  home  he 

left  behind : 
Lonely  felt  the  house  without  him,  and  the  young 

wife  moped  and  pined : 
Still  her  children's  love  sustained  her,  till  this 

sickness  laid  her  low ; 
When  good  Sister  Marianna  came  to  nurse  her, 

as  you  know* 

Week  on  week  had  hope  been  waning,  as  more 

feeble  still  she  grew : 
Marianna  tried,  but  vainly,  every  simple  cure  she 

knew. 
Then  the  doctor  gave  up  hoping,  and  his  long 

attendance  ceased : 


J59 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


"I  can  do  no  more,"   he  told  her;   "you  had 

better  call  the  priest. 
To  her  husband  I  have  written ;  he  will  have  the 

news  to-day : 
If  he  cares  again  to  see  her,  he  had  best  be  on 

his  way ! " 

Now  the  priest  has  done  his  office ;  at  the  open 

door  he  stands, 
And  he  says  to  Marianna :  "  I  can  leave  her  in 

your  hands, — 
I  have  other  work  that  calls  me ;  if  to-night  she 

chance  to  die, 
You  can  say  the  prayers,  good  sister,  for  her 

soul  as  well  as  I." 

So  they  left  her,  all  unaided,  in  the  house  forlorn 

and  sad, 
Still  to  watch  and  think  and  labour  with  what 

failing  strength  she  had. 
There  was  none  to  share  her  burden,  none  to 

speak  to,  none  to  see  — 
Save  a  helpful  boy  of  seven,  and  a  restless  one 

of  three, 

160 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


And  their  little  dark-eyed  sister  (she  was  five, 

and  came  between), 
And  a  baby,  born  that  winter,  which  the  father 

had  not  seen. 

Two  days  more !     Her  friend  lay  sleeping,  and 

she  watched  beside  the  bed : 
In  her  arms  she  rocked  the  baby,  while  the  Latin 

prayers  she  said,  — 
Prayers  to  help  a  soul  departing; — yet  she  never 

quite  despaired ! 
Might   not   yet  the  Lord  have  pity,  and  that 

mother's  life  be  spared? 
'T  was  so  hard  to  see  her  going — such  a  mother, 

kind  and  dear ! 
There  was  ne'er  another  like  her  in  the  country, 

far  or  near  I 
(So  thought  Sister  Marianna.)    Yet  to  murmur 

were  a  sin. 
But  her  tears  kept  rising,  rising,  though  she  tried 

to  hold  them  in, 
Till  one  fell  and  lay  there  shining,  on  the  head 

that  she  caressed, 
Small  and  pretty,  dark  and  downy,  lying  warm 

against  her  breast. 

n  J6J 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


She  was  silent ;  something  moved  her  that  had 

neither  place  nor  part 
In  the  grave  and  stately  cadence  of  the  prayers 

she  knew  by  heart. 
Then  she  spoke,  with  eyes  dilated,  with  her  soul 

in  every  word, 
As  to  one  she  saw  before  her  —  "Thou  hast 

been  a  child,  my  Lord ! 
Thou  hast  lain  as  small  and  speechless  as  this 

infant  on  my  knees ; 
Thou  hast  stretched  toward  Thy  Mother  little 

helpless  hands  like  these : 
Thou  hast  known  the  wants  of  children,  then — 

Oh,  listen  to  my  plea, 
For  one  moment,  Lord,  remember  what  Thy 

Mother  was  to  Thee ! 
Think,  when  all  was  dark  around  Thee,  how 

her  love  did  Thee  enfold ; 
How  she  tended,  how  she  watched  Thee ;  how 

she  wrapped  Thee  from  the  cold  I 
How  her  gentle  heart  was  beating,  on  that  night 

of  tears  and  strife, 
When  the  cruel  guards  pursued  Thee,  when 

King  Herod  sought  Thy  life  1 

J62 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


How  her  arms  enclosed  and  hid  Thee,  through 

that  midnight  journey  wild ! 
Oh,  for  love  of  Thine  own  Mother,  save  the 

mother  of  this  child ! " 

Now  she  paused  and  waited  breathless ;  for  she 

seemed  to  know  and  feel 
That  the  Lord  was  there,  and  listened  to  her 

passionate  appeal. 
Then  she  bowed  her  head,  all  trembling ;  but  a 

light  was  in  her  eye, 
For  her  soul  had  heard  the  answer :  that  young 

mother  would  not  die ! 
Yes,  the  prayer  of  faith  had  saved  her !   And  a 

change  began  that  day : 
When  she  woke  her  breath  was  easy,  and  the 

pain  had  passed  away. 
So  the  day  that  dawned  so  sadly  had  a  bright 

and  hopeful  close, 
And  a  solemn,  sweet  thanksgiving  from  the 

sister's  heart  arose. 

Now  the  night  had  closed  around  them,  and  a 
lonesome  night  it  seemed  I 

J63 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


For  the  sky  was  black  and  starless,  and  for  hours 
the  rain  had  streamed : 

And  the  wind  and  rain  together  made  a  wild 
and  mournful  din, 

As  they  beat  on  door  and  window,  madly  strug 
gling  to  come  in. 

Marianna,  faint  and  weary  with  the  strain  of 

many  days, 
On  the  broad  stone  hearth  was  kneeling,  while 

she  set  the  fire  ablaze, 
For  the  poor  lone  soul  she  cared  for  would,  ere 

morning,  need  to  eat. 
"Now,  God  help  me,"  said  the  sister,  "this 

night's  labour  to  complete ! " 
'T  was  a  meal   she  knew  would  please  her, 

which  she  lovingly  prepared, 
Of  that  best  and  chosen  portion,  from  the  con 
vent  table  spared, 
Which  she  brought,  as  was  her  habit,  with  much 

other  needed  store, 
In  the  worn  old  willow  basket,  standing  near  her 

on  the  floor. 


\(A 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


On  her  work  was   much  depending,   so   she 

planned  to  do  her  best ; 
And  she  set  the  earthen  pitcher  on  the  coals  as 

in  a  nest, 
With  the  embers  laid  around  it;  then  she  thought 

again,  and  cast 
On  the  pile  a  few  gray  ashes,  that  it  might  not 

boil  too  fast. 
But  the  touch  of  sleep  was  on  her,  she  was 

dreaming  while  she  planned, 
And  the  wooden  spoon  kept  falling  from  her  limp 

and  listless  hand. 
Then  she  roused  her,  struggling  bravely  with 

this  languor,  which  she  viewed 
As  a  snare,  a  sore  temptation,  to  be  fought  with 

and  subdued. 
But  another  fear  assailed  her  —  what  if  she 

should  faint  or  fall  ? 
And  to-night  the  storm-swept  cottage  seems  so 

far  away  from  all  I 
How  the  fitful  wind  is  moaning !   And  between 

the  gusts  that  blow, 
She  can  hear  the  torrent  roaring,  in  the  deep 

ravine  below. 

165 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


And  her  head  is  aching  strangely,  as  it  never  did 

before : 
"Good  Lord,  help  me!"  she  is  saying:  "this 

can  last  but  little  more ! 

0  my  blessed  Lord  and  Master,  only  help  me 

through  the  night  — 
Only  keep  my  eyes  from  closing  till  they  see 

the  morning  light ! 
For  that  mother  and  that  baby  do  so  weak  and 

helpless  lie, 
And  with  only  me  to  serve  them,  —  if  I  leave 

them,  they  may  die  I 
She  is  better  —  yes,  I  know  it,  but  a  touch  may 

turn  the  scale. 

1  can  send  for  help  to-morrow,  but  to-night  I 

must  not  fail !  " 
*T  was  in  vain ;  for  sleep  had  conquered,  and  the 

words  she  tried  to  say 
First  became  a  drowsy  murmur,  then  grew  faint 

and  died  away. 
And  she  slept  as  sleep  the  weary,  heedless  how 

the  night  went  on, 
With  her  pitcher  all  untended,  with  her  labour 

all  undone; 

166 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


On  the  wall  her  head  reclining,  in  the  chimney's 

empty  space, 
While  the  firelight  flared  and  flickered  on  her  pale 

and  peaceful  face. 
Was  her  humble  prayer  unanswered  ?   Oh,  the 

Lord  has  many  a  way 
That  His  children  little  think  of,  to  send  answers 

when  they  pray ! 
It  was  long  she  sat  there  sleeping — do  you  think 

her  work  was  spoiled  ? 
No,  the  fir-wood  fire  kept   burning,  and   the 

pitcher  gently  boiled : 
Ne'er  a  taint  of  smoke  had  touched  it,  nor  one 

precious  drop  been  spilt ; 
When  she  moved  and  looked  around  her,  with  a 

sudden  sense  of  guilt. 
But  her  eyes,  when  first  they  opened,  saw  a 

vision,  strange  and  sweet, 
For  a  little  Child  was  standing  on  the  hearth 
stone  at  her  feet. 
And  He  seemed  no  earthly  infant,  for  His  robe 

was  like  the  snow, 
And  a  glory  shone  about  Him  that  was  not  the 

firelight  glow. 

167 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


And  Himself  her  work  was  doing !  For  He  kept 

the  fire  alive, 
And  He  watched  the  earthen  pitcher,  that  no 

danger  might  arrive 
To  the  simple  meal,  now  ready,  with  the  coals 

around  it  piled ; 
Then  He  turned  His  face  toward  her,  and  she 

knew  the  Holy  Child* 
'Twas  her  Lord  who  stood  before  her!  And 

she  did  not  shrink  nor  start  — 
There  was  more  of  joy  than  wonder  in  her  all- 
believing  heart. 
When  her  willing  hands  were  weary,  when  her 

patient  eyes  were  closed, 
He  had  finished  all  she  failed  in,  He  had  watched 

while  she  reposed. 
Do  you  ask  of  His  appearance  ?   Human  words 

are  weak  and  cold ; 
*T  is  enough  to  say  she  knew  Him  —  that  is  all 

she  ever  told. 
Yes,  as  you  and  I  will  know  Him  when  that 

happy  day  shall  come, 
When,  if  we  on  earth  have  loved  Him,  He  will 

bid  us  welcome  home ! 

168 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


But  with  that  one  look  He  left  her,  and  the  vision 

all  had  passed, 
(Though  the  peace  it  left  within  her  to  her  dying 

hour  would  last !) 
Storm  had  ceased,  and  wind  was  silent,  there 

was  no  more  sound  of  rain, 
And  the  morning  star  was  shining  through  the 

window's  broken  pane. 

Later,  when  the  sun  was  rising,  Marianna  looked 

to  see, 
O'er  the  stretch  of  rain-washed  country,  what 

the  day  was  like  to  be, 
While  the  door  she  softly  opened,  letting  in  the 

morning  breeze, 
As  it  shook  the  drops  by  thousands  from  the 

wet  and  shining  trees. 
And  she  saw  the  sky  like  crystal,  for  the  clouds 

had  rolled  away, 
Though  they  lay  along  the  valleys,  in  their  folds 

of  misty  grey, 
Or  to  mountain   sides  were  clinging,  tattered 

relics  of  the  storm. 
And  among  the  trees  below  her  she  could  see  a 

moving  form ;   J69 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


'T  was  the  husband  home  returning,  yes,  thank 
God !  he  came  at  last : 

There  was  no  one  else  would  hasten  up  that 
mountain  road  so  fast. 

Now  the  drooping  boughs  concealed  him,  now 
he  came  in  sight  again; 

All  night  long  had  he  been  walking  in  the  dark 
ness,  in  the  rain ; 

Through  the  miles  of  ghostly  forest,  through  the 
villages  asleep, 

He  had  borne  his  burden  bravely,  till  he  reached 
that  hillside  steep; 

And  as  yet  he  seemed  not  weary,  for  his  spring 
ing  step  was  light, 

But  his  face  looked  worn  and  haggard  with  the 
anguish  of  the  night. 

Now  his  limbs  began  to  tremble,  and  he  walked 
with  laboured  breath, 

For  he  saw  his  home  before  him,  should  he  find 
there  life  or  death  ? 

How  his  heart  grew  faint  within  him  as  he 
neared  the  wished-for  place ! 

One  step  more,  his  feet  had  gained  it,  they  were 
standing  face  to  face. 

170 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


"  God  has  helped  us ! "  was  her  answer  to  the 
question  in  his  eye; 

And  her  smile  of  comfort  told  him  that  the  dan 
ger  had  gone  by. 

It  was  morning  now,  fair  morning!   and  the 

broken  sunlight  fell 
Through  the  boughs  that  crossed  above  her, 

where  the  buds  began  to  swell, 
As  adown  the  sloping  pathway,  that  her  feet  so 

oft  had  pressed, 
Went  the  Sister  Marianna  to  her  convent  home 

to  rest. 
It  was  spring  that  breathed  around  her,  for  the 

winter  strove  no  more, 
And  the  snowdrifts  all  had  vanished  with  the 

rain  the  night  before. 
Now  a  bee  would  flit  beside  her,  as  she  lightly 

moved  along; 
Or  a  bird  among  the  branches  tried  a  few  low 

notes  of  song. 

But  her  heart  had  music  sweeter  than  the  bird- 
notes  in  her  ears ! 
She  was  leaving  joy  behind  her  in  that  home  of 

many  tears :      m 


SUORA  MARIANNA 


Hope  was  there,  and  health  returning;   there 

were  happy  voice  and  smile, 
For  the  father  at  his  coming  had  brought  plenty 

for  a  while. 
And  she  knew  with  whom  she  left  them,  for 

herself  His  care  had  proved, 
When  her  mortal  eyes  were  opened,  and  she  saw 

the  face  she  loved, 
On  that  night  of  storm  and  trouble,  when  to  help 

her  He  had  come, 
As  He  helped  His  own  dear  Mother  in  their 

humble  earthly  home. 

As  she  went  the  day  grew  warmer;  sweeter 
came  the  wild  bird's  call ; 

Then,  what  made  her  start  and  linger  ?  T  was 
a  perfume,  that  was  all : 

Faint,  but  yet  enough  to  tell  her  that  the  violets 
were  in  bloom ; 

And  she  turned  aside  to  seek  them,  for  that  pic 
ture  in  her  room. 


J72 


The  Lupins 


J73 


THE  simple  story  of  "  The  Lupins "  is  very  com 
monly  known  among  the  country  people,  who 
often  quote  it  as  a  remedy  for  discontent. 


J74 


Che  Lupins 


"T*  WAS  a  day  in  late  November, 

*  When  the  fruits  were  gathered  in ; 
Day  to  dream  in,  and  remember 
All  the  beauty  that  had  been. 

Peacefully  the  year  was  dying; 
Soft  the  air,  and  deep  the  blue ; 
Brown  and  bare  the  fields  were  lying, 
Where  the  summer  harvest  grew. 

Autumn  flowers  had  bloomed  and  seeded ; 
Yet  a  few  of  humblest  kind, 
Waiting  till  they  most  were  needed, 
Brought  the  pleasant  days  to  mind. 

Here  and  there  a  red-tipped  daisy 
Still  its  small  bright  face  would  show ; 
While  above  the  distance  hazy 
Rose  the  mountains,  white  with  snow. 

J75 


THE  LUPINS 


With  a  light  subdued  and  tender, 
Shone  the  sun  on  vale  and  hill, 
Where  the  faded  autumn  splendour 
Left  a  sober  sweetness  still. 

By  a  road  that  wandered,  winding, 
Far  among  the  hills  away, 
Walked  a  man,  despondent,  finding 
Little  comfort  in  the  day. 

Pale  of  tint  and  fine  of  feature, 
Formed  with  less  of  strength  than  grace, 
Seldom  went  a  sadder  creature, 
Seeking  work  from  place  to  place. 

He  from  noble  race  descended, 
Heir  to  wealth  and  honoured  name, 
Who  had  oft  the  poor  befriended 
When  about  his  door  they  came, 

By  a  brother's  evil  doing 
Had  to  poverty  been  brought : 
Now  his  listless  way  pursuing, 
Ever  on  the  past  he  thought. 

176 


THE  LUPINS 


He,  to  hope  no  longer  clinging, 
Drifted,  led  he  knew  not  where, 
By  a  sound  of  far-off  singing 
Floating  in  the  dreamy  air,  — 

Many  voices  sweetly  blending, 
Sounding  o'er  the  hills  remote, 
Every  verse  the  same,  and  ending 
In  one  plaintive,  long-drawn  note. 

"  Olive  gatherers,  I  know  them, 
Singing  songs  from  tree  to  tree; 
If  the  road  will  lead  me  to  them, 
There  are  food  and  work  for  me/' 

He  a  humble  meal  was  making, 
While  he  warmed  him  in  the  sun ; 
From  his  pocket  slowly  taking 
Yellow  lupins,  one  by  one. 

Most  forlorn  he  felt  and  lonely, 
While  he  ate  them  on  the  way ; 
For  those  lupins,  and  they  only, 
Were  his  food  for  all  the  day. 

J2  177 


THE  LUPINS 


Since  to  shame  his  brother  brought  him, 
Want  had  often  pressed  him  sore ; 
Yet  misfortune  never  brought  him 
Quite  so  low  as  this  before ! 

"  If  my  lot  be  hard  and  painful, 
There 's  one  comfort  still  for  me ; " 
(Said  he,  with  a  smile  disdainful,) 
44  Poorer,  I  can  never  be. 

"  There 's  no  lower  step  to  stand  on, 
No  more  burning  shame  to  feel : 
Not  a  crust  to  lay  my  hand  on, 
Only  lupins  for  a  meal ! " 

He  could  see  the  laden  table 
Where  his  parents  used  to  dine : 
Well  for  them  who  were  not  able 
Then  the  future  to  divine. 

Oh,  but  he  was  glad  God  took  them 
Ere  they  saw  him  fall  so  low : 
How  their  cherished  hope  forsook  them, 
They  had  never  lived  to  know. 

J78 


THE  LUPINS 


"  I,  so  dearly  loved  and  cared  for, 
I,  on  whom  such  hopes  were  built, 
Whom  such  blessings  were  prepared  for- 
Ruined  by  a  brother's  guilt ! " 

Now  he  wrung  his  hands  despairing, 
Stamped  his  foot  upon  the  ground ; 
Bitter  thoughts  his  heart  were  tearing,  — 
When  he  heard  a  footstep  sound. 

Then  he  started,  sobered  quickly, 
Took  an  attitude  sedate, 
With  that  terror,  faint  and  sickly, 
Which  he  often  felt  of  late. 

What  if  some  old  friend  should  find  him  ? 
But  he  turned,  the  story  tells, 
And  he  saw  a  man  behind  him, 
Picking  up  the  lupin  shells ; 

Picking  up  the  shells  and  eating 
What  the  other  cast  away. 
Now  abashed,  their  eyes  were  meeting : 
'T  was  a  beggar,  worn  and  gray, 

J79 


THE  LUPINS 


Hollow-eyed  and  thin  and  wasted ; 
By  his  look  you  might  suppose, 
He  had  ne'er  a  morsel  tasted 
Since  the  sun  that  morning  rose. 

Stood  the  younger  man  astonished, 
And  no  more  bewailed  his  fate ; 
Only  bowed  his  headt  admonished 
By  the  sight  of  want  so  great. 

Then  he  said :  "  Come  here,  my  brother, 
And  the  lupins  we  will  share ; 
Maybe,  if  we  help  each  other, 
God  will  have  us  in  His  care." 

"  Thank  the  Lord !  and  you,  kind  master ! 
May  He  help  you  in  your  need ; 
Save  your  soul  from  all  disaster 
And  remember  your  good  deed  ! " 

Said  the  beggar,  smiling  brightly. 
And  the  other  thus  replied,  - 
Now  content,  and  walking  lightly 
By  his  poorer  neighbour's  side,  — 

180 


THE  LUPINS 


44  Friend,  you  have  a  blessing  brought  me, 
And  I  thank  you  in  my  turn, 
For  a  lesson  you  have  taught  me 
Which  I  needed  much  to  learn. 

44  And  henceforth  will  I  endeavour 
Not  to  pine  for  fortune  high, 
But  remember  there  is  ever 
Some  one  lower  down  than  I. 

44  But  alas,  when  I  was  younger, 
Wealth  and  honoured  state  were  mine ; 
Shame,  my  friend,  is  worse  than  hunger : 
T  is  for  this  that  I  repine/' 

Then  the  beggar  rose  up  stately, 
Looked  the  other  in  the  face, 
Saying  (for  he  wondered  greatly), 
44  Poverty  is  no  disgrace ; 

"  For  our  Lord,  I  think,  was  poorer 
Once  than  you  or  even  I, 
And  His  poor  of  Heaven  are  surer 
Than  the  rich  who  pass  them  by/' 

181 


THE  LUPINS 


So  the  two  went  on  together, 
Casting  on  the  Lord  their  care, 
Happy  in  the  balmy  weather, 
Happy  in  their  simple  fare. 

Now  an  ancient  olive  o'er  them 
Threw  its  slender  lines  of  shade, 
Bending  low  its  boughs  before  them, 
Silver-leafed  that  cannot  fade ; 

Bearing  fruit  in  winter  season, 
Still  through  every  change  the  same : 
Tree  of  peace  —  they  had  good  reason 
Who  have  called  it  by  that  name ! 

And  with  that  the  story  leaves  them ; 
You  can  end  it  as  you  please : 
Gain  that  cheers,  or  loss  that  grieves  them, 
Life  of  toil,  or  life  of  ease. 

Did  some  fortune  unexpected 
Give  to  one  his  wealth  again? 
Or  did  both,  forlorn,  neglected, 
End  their  days  in  want  and  pain  ? 

182 


THE  LUPINS 


Many  years  have  they  been  dwelling 
Where  such  trifles  of  the  way 
Are  not  counted  worth  the  telling  I 
Both  are  with  the  Lord  to-day. 

He  in  whom  their  souls  confided 
Did  for  both  a  home  prepare ; 
Yet  that  humble  meal  divided 
Gives  a  blessing  even  there. 


J83 


The  Silver  Cross 


J85 


THE  story  of  "  St.  Caterina  of  Siena  and  her  Silver 
Cross "  is  one  of  her  many  visions,  recorded  by 
her  confessor. 


J86 


Che  Silver  Cross 


'T'HROUGH  the  streets  of  old  Siena,  at  the 

A          dawning  of  the  day, 
Went  the  holy  Caterina,  as  the  bells  began  to 

sound ; 
With  the  light  of  peace  celestial  in  her  eyes  of 

olive  gray, 
For  her  soul  was  with  the  angels,  while  her  feet 

were  on  the  ground. 

She  was  fair  as  any  lily,  with  as  delicate  a  grace; 

And  the  air  of  early  morning  had  just  tinged  her 
cheek  with  rose : 

Yet  one  hardly  thought  of  beauty  in  that  pale, 
illumined  face, 

That  the  souls  in  trouble  turned  to,  finding  com 
fort  and  repose. 

And  the  men  their  heads  uncovered,  though  they 
dared  not  speak  her  praise, 

When  they  saw  her  like  a  vision  down  the  nar 
row  street  descend ; 


J87 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


And  they  wondered  what  she  looked  at,  with 

that  far-off  dreamy  gaze, 
While  her  lips  were  often  moving,  as  though 

talking  to  a  friend. 

There  were  few  abroad  so  early,  and  she  scarcely 

heard  a  sound, 
Save  the  cooing  of  the  pigeons,  as  about  her  feet 

they  strayed, 
Or  the  bell  that  sweetly  called  her  to  the  church 

where  she  was  bound ; 
While  the  palaces  around  her  stood  in  silence 

and  in  shade. 


And  the  towers  built  for  warfare  rose  about  her, 
dark  and  proud, 

But  their  summits  caught  a  glory,  as  the  morn 
ing  onward  came, 

And  the  summer  sky  beyond  them  was  alight 
with  fleecy  cloud, 

Where  the  gray  of  dawn  was  changing,  first  to 
rose  and  then  to  flame. 


J88 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


By  a  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  at  a  corner  where 

she  passed, 
Stood  a  stranger  leaning  on  it,  as  though  weary 

and  forlorn, 
With  a  bundle  slung  behind  him  and  a  cloak 

about  him  cast ; 
For  he  shivered  in  the  freshness  of  the  pleasant 

summer  morn. 


Said  the  stranger,  "  Will  you  help  me  ? "  and 

she  looked  on  him  and  knew, 
By  his  hand  that  trembled  feebly  as  he  held  it 

out  for  aid, 
By  his  eyes  that  were  so  heavy,  and  his  lips  of 

ashen  hue, 
That  the  terrible  Maremma  had  its  curse  upon 

him  laid. 

So  she  listened  to  his  story,  that  was  pitiful  to 

hear, 
Of  a  widowed  mother  waiting  on  the  mountain 

for  her  son ; 


189 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


How  to  help  her  he  had  laboured  till  the  sum 
mer  time  drew  near, 

And  of  how  the  fever  took  him  just  before  his 
work  was  done. 

He  was  young  and  he  was  hopeful,  and  the  smile 

began  to  come 
In  his  eyes,  as  though  they  thanked  her  for  the 

pity  she  bestowed, 
And  he  said:   "I  shall  recover  if  I  reach  my 

mountain  home, 
And  if  some  good  Christian  people  will  but  help 

me  on  the  road. 


"  For  I  go  to  Casentino,  where  the  air  is  pure 

and  fine, 
But  my  strength  too  often  fails  me,  and  the  place 

is  far  away ; 
So  I  pray  you  give  me  something,  for  a  little 

bread  and  wine, 
That  I  'may  not  set  out  fasting  on  my  weary 

walk  to-day ," 


190 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


Then  a  certain  faint  confusion  with  her  pity 

seemed  to  blend, 
And  her  face,  so  sweet  and  saintly,  showed  the 

shadow  of  a  cloud, 
As  she  said:  "  I  am  no  lady,  though  you  call  me 

so,  my  friend, 
But  a  poor  Domenicana  who  to  poverty  am 

vowed. 

"  I  can  give  a  prayer  to  help  you  on  your  journey, 
nothing  more, 

For  these  garments  I  am  wearing  are  the  sister 
hood's,  not  mine, 

And  the  very  bread  they  gave  me  when  I  left 
the  convent  door 

To  a  beggar  by  the  wayside  I  this  morning  did 
consign. 

44 1  would  give  you  all  you  ask  for  if  I  had  it  to 

command." 
Then  she  sighed  and  would  have  left  him,  but 

the  stranger  made  her  stay, 


J9J 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


For  he  held  her  by  the  mantle,  with  his  cold  and 

wasted  hand : 
"  For  the  love  of  Christ,  my  lady,  do  not  send 

me  thus  away!" 

He  had  used  the  name  unthinking,  but  it  moved 

her  none  the  less, 
And  she  turned  again    toward  him,  with  a 

softened,  solemn  air, 
While  her  hand  began  to  wander  up  and  down 

her  simple  dress, 
As  though  vaguely  it  were  seeking  for  some 

trifle  she  could  spare. 

Then  the  rosary  she  lifted  that  was  hanging  at 

her  waist, 
And  its  silver  cross  unfastened,  which  was  small 

and  very  old, 
With  the  edges  worn  and  rounded  and  the  image 

half  effaced, 
Yet  she  loved  it  more  than  lady  ever  loved  a 

cross  of  gold. 


192 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


It  had  been  her  life  companion,  in  the  tempest,  in 

the  calm ; 
She  had  held  it  to  her  bosom  when  she  prayed 

with  troubled  mind ; 
And  she  kissed  it  very  gently,  as  she  laid  it  in 

his  palm, 
"For  the  love  of  Christ,  then,  take  it;  'tis  the 

only  thing  I  find/' 

So  he  thanked  her  and  departed,  and  she  thought 

of  him  no  more, 
Save  to  ask  the  Lord  to  help  him,  when  that  day 

in  church  she  prayed ; 
But  the  cross  of  Caterina  on  his  heart  the  stranger 

wore, 
And  her  presence  unforgotten  like  a  blessing  with 

him  stayed. 

Now  the  city  life  is  stirring,  and  the  streets  are 

in  the  sun, 
And  the  bells  ring  out  their  music  o'er  the  busy 

town  again, 

J3  193 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


As  the  people  slowly  scatter  from  the  church 

where  Mass  is  done ; 
But  the  blessed  Caterina  in  her  seat  did  still 

remain. 


For  the  sleep  divine  was  on  her,  which  so  often 

to  her  came, 
When  of  mortal  life  the  shadow  from  around  her 

seemed  to  fall ; 
And  she  looked  on  things  celestial  with   her 

happy  soul  aflame : 
But  that  day  the  dream  that  held  her  was  the 

sweetest  of  them  all. 

For  the  Lord  appeared  in  glory,  and  he  seemed 
to  her  to  stand 

In  a  chamber  filled  with  treasures  such  as  eye 
had  never  seen ; 

And  a  cross  of  wondrous  beauty  He  was  hold 
ing  in  His  hand, 

Set  with  every  stone  most  precious  and  with 
pearls  of  light  serene. 


J94 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


And  He  told  her  that  those  treasures  were  the 

presents  He  received 
From  the  souls  on  earth  who  love  Him,  and  are 

seeking  Him  to  please. 
Were  they  deecls  of  noble  service  ?  that  was  what 

she  first  believed, 
And  she  thought,  "  What  happy  people  who  can 

bring  Him  gifts  like  these ! " 

For  herself  could  offer  nothing,  and  she  sighed 

to  think  how  far 
From  the  best  she  ever  gave  him  were  the  gems 

in  that  bright  store. 
But  He  held  the  cross  toward  her,  that  was 

shining  like  a  star, 
And  He  bade  her  look  and  tell  Him  had  she  seen 

it  e'er  before. 


"No,"  she  answered  humbly,  "never  did  my 

eyes  the  like  behold." 
But  a  flood  of  sudden  sweetness  came  upon  her 

like  a  wave, 


195 


THE  SILVER  CROSS 


For  she  saw  among  the  jewels  and  the  work  of 

beaten  gold 
Was  the  little  Cross  of  Silver  that  for  love  of 

Christ  she  gave. 

And  I  think  her  dream  that  morning  was  a  mes 
sage  from  above, 

That  a  proof  of  deepest  meaning  we  might  learn 
and  understand,  — 

Though  our  very  best  be  worthless  that  we 
give  for  Jesus'  love, 

It  will  change  and  turn  to  glory  when  He  takes 
it  in  His  hand. 


'Ccars  of  Repentance 


TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE  I  found  in  a 
book  called  Marawiglie  di  Dio  ne'  Suof  Santt,  by  the 
Jesuit  Father,  Padre  Carlo  Gregorio  Rosignoli,  printed 
at  Bologna  in  1696.  He  says  it  was  written  originally 
by  Theophilus  Raynaudus, 


J98 


Cbe  Cears  of  Repentance 


PART  FIRST 
THE  MOUNTAIN 

A  WILD,  sad  story  I  tell  to-day, 
And  I  pray  you  to  listen  all ! 
You  cannot  think  how  my  heart  is  moved 
As  the  legend  I  recall,  — 

The  legend  that  made  me  weep  so  oft, 
When  I  was  a  child  like  you  ! 
I  tell  it  now,  in  my  life's  decline, 
And  it  brings  the  tears  anew. 

It  came  to  us  down  through  ages  long ; 
For  this  story  had  its  scene 
In  the  far-away,  gorgeous,  stormy  days 
Of  the  empire  Byzantine. 

And  it  tells  of  a  famous  mountain  chief, 
A  terrible,  fierce  brigand, 
Who  ravaged  the  country,  far  and  wide, 
At  the  head  of  an  armed  band. 

199 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

So  hard  of  heart  was  this  evil  man 

That  he  spared  not  young  nor  old : 

He  killed  and  plundered,  and  burned  and  spoiled, 

In  his  maddening  thirst  for  gold; 

Would  come  with  a  swoop  on  a  merchant  troop, 
That  peacefully  went  its  way, 
And  the  counted  gains  of  a  journey  long 
Were  scattered  in  one  short  day ! 

He  knew  no  pity,  he  owned  no  law, 
Nor  human,  nor  yet  divine ; 
Would  take  the  gold  from  a  Prince's  chest, 
Or  the  lamp  from  a  wayside  shrine. 

In  hidden  valley,  in  wild  ravine, 

On  desolate,  heath-grown  hill, 

He  buried  his  treasure  away  from  sight, 

And  most  of  it  lies  there  still. 

And  none  were  free  in  that  land  to  dwell, 

Except  they  a  tribute  paid ; 

For  the  robber  chief,  who  was  more  than  king, 

Had  this  burden  on  them  laid. 

200 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

If  any  dared  to  resist  the  claim, 
He  was  met  with  vengeance  dire ; 
His  lands  were  wasted  before  the  dawn, 
And  his  harvest  burned  with  fire* 

And  some  day  maybe  himself  was  slain, 
And  left  in  the  road  to  lie ; 
To  fill  with  terror  the  quaking  heart 
Of  the  next  who  journeyed  by. 

And  many  fled  to  the  towns  afar, 
And  their  fields  were  left  untilled ; 
While  want  and  trouble  and  trembling  fear 
Had  the  stricken  country  filled. 

High  up  on  a  mountain's  pathless  side 
Had  the  robber  made  his  den, 
In  a  rocky  cave,  where  he  reigned  supreme 
Over  twenty  lawless  men. 

A  price  had  long  on  his  head  been  set, 
But  for  that  he  little  cared ; 
For  few  were  they  who  could  climb  the  way, 
And  fewer  were  those  who  dared. 

20J 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

For  those  who  hunted  him  long  before 
Had  a  fearful  story  brought : 
They  were  not  men  on  the  mountain  side, 
But  demons  who  with  them  fought  1 

For  horrible  forms  arose,  they  said, 

As  if  from  the  earth  they  grew ; 

And  rolled  down  rocks  from  the  cliffs  above 

On  any  who  might  pursue. 

From  town  to  town  and  from  land  to  land, 
Had  his  evil  fame  been  spread; 
And  voices  lowered  and  lips  grew  grave 
When  the  hated  name  they  said. 

The  peopled  heart  had  grown  faint  with  fear, 
And  they  thought  no  hope  remained ; 
But  hope  again  on  their  vision  dawned, 
When  the  Emperor's  ear  they  gained. 

Mauritius  reigned  o'er  the  nations  then ; 

He  was  great  in  warlike  fame, 

And  he  was  not  one  to  shrink  or  quake 

At  a  mountain  bandit's  name. 
202 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

He  sent  a  band  of  a  hundred  strong 
For  the  troubled  land's  release, 
To  kill  the  man  and  his  bloody  crew, 
And  to  give  the  country  peace. 

For  what  was  a  robber  chief  to  him  ? 
He  had  conquered  mighty  kings ; 
He  gave  the  order,  and  then  *t  was  done, 
And  he  thought  of  other  things. 

But  few,  alas,  of  that  troop  returned, 
And  they  told  a  ghostly  tale ; 
And  women  wept,  and  the  strongest  men, 
As  they  heard,  grew  mute  and  pale. 

Those  soldiers  oft  in  the  war  had  been, 
And  they  counted  danger  light ; 
From  mortal  foe  had  they  never  turned, 
But  with  demons  who  could  fight  ? 

The  Emperor  silent  was  and  grave, 
For  his  thoughts  were  deep  and  wise ; 
He  saw  that  the  robber  chief  was  one 
Whom  he  could  not  well  despise. 

203 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

There  might  be  reason  in  what  they  said, 
That  the  demons  gave  him  aid, 
And  earthly  weapon  would  ne'er  be  found 
That  could  make  such  foes  afraid. 

But  yet  they  will  flee  from  sacred  things, 
And  the  martyred  saints,  he  knew, 
Have  holy  virtue,  that  to  them  clings, 
That  can  all  their  spells  undo. 

But  how  could  such  weapon  reach  the  soul 
That  for  years  had  owned  their  sway  ? 
A  question  grave  that  he  pondered  long ; 
But  at  length  he  found  a  way. 

A  reliquary  he  made  prepare ; 

It  was  all  of  finest  gold : 

For  as  monarch  might  with  monarch  treat, 

He  would  serve  this  bandit  bold. 

The  gold  was  his,  but  the  work  he  gave 
To  the  skilled  and  patient  hand 
Of  an  artist  monk,  who  counted  then 
For  the  first  in  all  the  land. 

204 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

Now  see  him  close  to  his  labour  bent, 
In  a  cell  remote  and  high, 
Where  all  he  saw  of  the  world  without 
Was  a  square  of  roof  and  sky. 

A  holy  man  was  this  artist  monk, 
And  for  gain  he  did  not  ask, 
If  only  the  Lord  his  work  would  bless, 
For  his  heart  was  in  the  task. 

And  day  by  day  from  his  touch  came  forth 
The  image  of  holy  things ; 
The  cross  was  there,  and  the  clustered  vine, 
And  the  dove  with  outspread  wings,  — 

The  dove  that  bore  in  her  golden  beak 
The  olive  in  sign  of  peace,  — 
And  still,  as  he  wrought,  his  hand  kept  time 
To  the  prayer  that  would  not  cease ! 

For  pity  stirred  in  him  when  he  thought 
Of  that  dark  and  stormy  breast, 
So  hard,  so  hopeless,  from  God  so  far, 
Where  the  little  shrine  would  rest. 

205 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  perhaps  if  angels  were  looking  on, 
(And  I  doubt  not  some  were  there!) 
They  saw  that  the  work  was  sown  with  pearls, 
And  each  pearl  a  burning  prayer. 

So  weeks  went  on,  and  the  shrine  was  done, 
And  within  it,  sealed  and  closed, 
Were  holy  relics  of  martyred  saints 
Who  near  in  the  church  reposed. 

And  trusted  messengers  bore  it  forth 
To  the  distant  mountain  land ; 
With  such  a  weapon  they  need  not  fear ; 
They  could  meet  the  famed  brigand. 

'Twas  winter  now  on  the  mountain-side, 
And  the  way  was  long  and  hard, 
As  the  faithful  envoys  upward  toiled 
In  their  bandit  escort's  guard,  — 

Toiled  up  to  a  grove  of  ancient  firs, 
For  that  was  the  place  designed, 
Where,  after  parley  and  long  delay, 
Had  the  meeting  been  combined. 

206 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

No  sound  but  their  feet  that  crushed  the  snow, 
And  the  world  looked  sad  and  dead ; 
They  thought  of  lives  on  the  mountain  lost, 
And  it  was  not  much  they  said. 

The  sun,  as  it  shone  with  slanting  ray 
Through  the  stripped. and  silent  trees, 
Could  melt  but  little  the  clinging  ice 
Which  to-night  again  would  freeze. 

They  reached  the  grove,  and  the  chief  was  there, 
Like  a  king  in  savage  state; 
Erect  and  fearless,  above  them  all, 
While  his  men  around  him  wait. 

He  stood  before  them  like  what  he  was, 
A  terrible  beast  of  prey ; 
But  even  tigers  have  something  grand, 
And  he  looked  as  grand  as  they. 

But,  oh,  the  look  that  he  on  them  turned  ! 
It  was  fearful  to  behold ; 
It  chilled  their  hearts,  but  they  did  not  shrink, 
For  their  faith  had  made  them  bold. 

207 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  looking  straight  in  those  gloomy  eyes. 
With  their  hard  and  cruel  glare, 
'4  We  come,"  said  one,  "  in  the  Emperor's  name, 
And  from  him  a  token  bear." 

Then  said  the  chief,  with  a  mocking  smile, 
"  And  what  may  my  Lord  command  ?  " 
And  made  a  sign  with  his  evil  eye, 
For  the  men  on  guard  to  stand. 

No  faith  had  he  in  a  tale  so  wild, 
And  he  somewhat  feared  a  snare ; 
There  might  be  others  in  hiding  near, 
But  he  did  not  greatly  care. 

Then  forth  came  he  who  the  relics  bore,  - 
T  was  a  prudent  man  and  brave,  — 
And  into  the  hand  that  all  men  feared, 
He  the  holy  token  gave. 

"  This  gift  to  you  has  the  Emperor  sent, 
In  token  of  his  good  will," 
He  said ;  and  at  first  the  fierce  brigand 
Stood  in  wonder,  hushed  and  still. 

208 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

What  felt  he  then  as  that  holy  thing 

In  his  guilty  hand  he  took  ? 

What  changed  his  face  for  a  moment's  time 

To  an  almost  human  look  ? 

There  lay  the  shrine  in  his  open  palm, 

Yet  he  thought  it  could  not  be : 

"  For  me  ?  "  he  asked,  but  his  voice  was  strange, 

And  again  he  said,  "  for  me  ?  " 

Three  times  the  messenger  told  his  tale, 
And  he  said  't  was  all  he  knew ; 
The  bandit  looked  at  the  wondrous  work, 
And  he  could  not  doubt 't  was  true. 

So  over  his  neck  the  chain  he  hung, 
The  shrine  on  his  bosom  lay 
With  all  its  wealth  of  a  thousand  prayers ; 
And  they  were  not  cast  away. 

Day  followed  day  in  the  bandit's  cave, 
And  a  restless  man  was  he ; 
A  heart  so  hard  and  so  proud  as  his 
With  the  saints  could  ill  agree. 

J4  209 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

The  holy  relics  that  on  it  lay 
Did  a  strange  confusion  make ; 
In  all  that  most  he  had  loved  before, 
He  could  no  more  pleasure  take. 

A  charm  there  was  in  the  golden  shrine 
That  had  all  his  soul  possessed ; 
He  sat  and  looked  at  each  sacred  sign 
With  a  dreamy  sense  of  rest. 

'T  was  not  the  gold  that  could  soothe  him  thus, 
And  *t  was  not  the  work  so  fine : 
'T  was  the  holy  soul  of  the  artist  monk, 
For  it  lived  in  every  line* 

Like  one  who  sleeps  when  the  day  begins, 
And,  before  his  slumbers  end, 
The  morning  light  and  the  morning  sounds 
With  his  dreaming  fancies  blend ; 

So  now  and  then  would  his  heart  be  stirred 

By  a  feeling  strange  and  new, 

And  thoughts  he  never  had  known  before 

In  his  mind  unconscious  grew. 

210 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

Till  on  a  sudden  his  blinding  pride, 
Like  a  bubble,  failed  and  broke ; 
With  eyes  wide  open,  the  guilty  man 
From  his  life-long  dream  awoke. 

From  graves  forgotten  his  crimes  came  forth, 
In  his  face  they  seemed  to  stare : 
To  all  one  day  will  such  waking  come ; 
God  grant  it  be  here,  not  there. 

Then  wild  remorse  on  his  heart  took  hold, 
And  beneath  its  burning  sting 
He  shrank  from  himself  as  one  might  shrink 
From  a  venomous,  hateful  thing. 

For  scenes  of  blood  from  the  years  gone  by 
Forever  before  him  came ; 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  face  he  hid, 
But  he  saw  them  just  the  same. 

And  in  the  horror  he  dared  not  pray, 
For  he  felt  his  soul  accurst, 
And  he  feared  to  live,  and  he  feared  to  die, 
And  he  knew  not  which  was  worst. 

2\\ 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

Yet  far  on  high,  and  beyond  his  reach, 
He  could  see  a  vision  dim, 
A  far-off  glory  of  peace  and  love ; 
But  he  felt  \  was  not  for  him. 

Awhile  his  trouble  he  hid  from  all, 
For  his  will  was  iron  strong, 
But  never  was  man,  since  man  was  made, 
Who  could  bear  such  torment  long, 

A  strange,  sick  longing  was  growing  up 
In  his  spirit,  day  by  day, 
A  longing  for  what  he  most  had  feared,  — 
To  let  justice  have  her  way ; 

Until  the  will  to  a  purpose  grew, 
To  the  Emperor's  feet  to  fly, 
To  own  his  sin  without  prayer  or  plea, 
And  then  give  up  all  and  die. 

And  so  one  night,  without  sound  or  word, 
Away  in  the  dark  he  stole, 
And  all  that  he  took  for  his  journey  long 
Was  the  weight  of  a  burdened  soul. 

2J2 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

They  waited  long  in  that  den  of  crime, 
But  they  saw  their  chief  no  more ; 
Or  dead  or  living,  they  found  him  not, 
Though  they  searched  the  mountain  o'er. 

And  in  the  country,  so  long  oppressed, 
When  his  sudden  flight  was  known, 
They  spoke  of  a  wild  and  fearful  night, 
When  the  fiends  had  claimed  their  own. 

And  soon  the  tale  to  a  legend  turned, 
And  men  trembling  used  to  tell 
Of  how  they  carried  him,  body  and  soul, 
To  the  place  where  demons  dwell. 

His  men,  so  bold,  were  in  mortal  fear 
Of  what  might  themselves  befall ; 
So  some  in  a  convent  refuge  sought, 
And  the  rest  were  scattered  all. 

And  no  one  climbed  to  their  empty  cave, 
For  't  was  called  a  haunted  place, 
Though  soon  the  summer  had  swept  away 
Of  its  horror  every  trace. 

213 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  mountain  strawberries  nestled  low. 
And  delicate  harebells  hung, 
In  beauty  meek,  from  its  broken  arch, 
Where  the  swallows  reared  their  young. 

But  where  had  he  gone,  that  man  of  woe  ? 
Had  he  found  the  rest  he  sought  ? 
In  haste  he  went,  but  with  noiseless  tread, 
As  his  bandit  life  had  taught. 

And  going  downward  he  met  the  spring, 
With  its  mingled  sun  and  showers ; 
But  storms  of  winter  he  bore  within, 
And  he  did  not  see  the  flowers. 

And  how  did  he  live  from  day  to  day, 
And  the  ceaseless  strain  endure  ? 
Kind  hearts  there  are  that  can  feel  for  all, 
And  the  poor  will  help  the  poor. 

In  frightened  pity,  a  shepherd  girl, 
As  she  fled  o'er  the  daisied  grass, 
Would  let  the  bread  from  her  apron  fall 
On  the  turf  where  he  should  pass ; 

214 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

Or  workmen,  eating  their  noonday  meal 
On  a  bank  beside  the  way, 
Would  give  him  food,  but  with  outstretched  arm, 
And  they  asked  him  not  to  stay. 

He  went  like  a  shadow  taken  shape 
From  some  vague  and  awful  dream, 
And  word  of  comfort  for  him  was  none, 
In  his  misery  so  extreme. 

Alas,  from  himself  he  could  not  flee, 
Though  he  tried,  poor  haunted  man ; 
And  he  reached  the  city  beside  the  sea, 
As  the  Holy  Week  began. 


215 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 


PART  SECOND 

"T"r  WAS  Sunday  morn,  and  a  hundred  bells 

A       With  their  sweet  and  saintly  sound 
Were  calling  the  people  in  to  prayer 
From  the  pleasant  hills  around,  - 

The  morn  when  strivings  should  end  in  peace, 
And  each  wrong  forgotten  be, 
That  Holy  Week  may  its  blessing  shed 
Upon  souls  from  discord  free. 

The  streets  were  bright  with  a  moving  throng, 

And  before  the  palace  gate, 

With  eager  eyes  and  in  garments  gay, 

Did  a  crowd  expectant  wait. 

For  the  Emperor  goes  in  solemn  state, 
With  his  court,  like  all  the  rest, 
To  the  church  with  many  lamps  ablaze, 
Where  to-day  the  palms  are  blest. 

216 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  stately  ladies  and  timid  girls, 

In  their  modest  plain  attire, 

From  curtained  windows  are  looking  down, 

And  the  shifting  scene  admire. 

They  come,  they  come,  from  the  cool  deep  shade 
Of  the  courtyard's  marble  arch,  - 
The  nobles  all  in  thsir  rich  array, 
And  the  guards  with  sounding  march. 

And  stay,  the  square  is  as  still  as  death, 
For  the  Emperor  passes  now ; 
The  girls  at  the  window  hold  their  breath, 
And  the  people  bend  and  bow. 

But  who  is  this  that  among  them  moves 
With  that  quick  and  stately  pace  ? 
What  see  they  all  in  his  rigid  look, 
That  they  shrink  and  give  him  place  ? 

Too  late  the  guards  would  have  barred  the  way, 

For  he  darted  swiftly  by, 

As  hunted  creatures,  when  hard  beset, 

To  man  in  their  terror  fly. 

217 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  sinking  low  at  the  feet  of  him 
He  had  come  so  far  to  see, 
He  waited  silent  with  folded  hands, 
Nor  asked  what  his  fate  should  be, 

;'  Who  are  you,  come  in  such  deep  distress, 
And  what  is  the  grace  you  seek  ?  " 
The  Emperor's  voice  was  grave  and  kind, 
And  the  stranger  tried  to  speak. 

The  golden  casket  he  raised  in  sight, 
While  he  bent  his  eyes  for  shame ; 
Then  said  he,  "  I  am  that  wicked  man," 
And  he  told  the  dreaded  name. 

A  shudder  fell  upon  all  who  heard, 
But  the  people  nearer  drew ; 
From  mouth  to  mouth,  in  a  whisper  low, 
The  name  of  the  bandit  flew. 

While  he,  uplifting  those  woful  eyes, 

In  the  boldness  of  despair, 

With  ne'er  a  thought  of  the  crowd  who  heard, 

His  errand  did  thus  declare : 

2J8 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

"  I  come  not  here  to  confess  my  sins, 
For  you  know  them  all  too  well ; 
My  crimes  are  many  and  black  and  great, 
They  are  more  than  tongue  can  tell. 

"  But  here  at  your  feet  my  life  I  lay, 
I  have  nothing  else  to  give ; 
So  now,  if  it  please  you,  speak  the  word, 
For  I  am  not  fit  to  live/* 

The  words  came  straight  from  his  broken  heart 
In  such  sad  and  simple  style, 
That  the  Emperor's  firm,  proud  lips  were  moved 
To  a  somewhat  softened  smile. 

For  his  warlike  spirit  felt  the  charm 

Of  that  savage  strength  and  grace, 

And  the  strange  fierce  beauty  that  lingered  still 

In  the  dark  and  troubled  face. 

So  grand  of  form  and  so  lithe  of  limb, 
And  still  in  his  manhood's  prime, 
*T  would  be  a  pity  for  one  like  him 
To  perish  before  his  time. 

2J9 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  't  was  well  to  see  him  kneeling  there, 
Whose  terror  had  filled  the  land, 
Like  a  captive  tiger,  caught  and  tamed 
By  his  own  imperial  hand* 

"  Arise,"  he  said,  "  you  have  nought  to  fear, 
Take  comfort  and  go  your  way, 
And  may  God  in  heaven  my  sins  forgive, 
As  I  pardon  yours  to-day," 

A  murmur  rose  from  the  crowded  square, 
At  the  sound  of  words  like  these ; 
For  some  rejoiced  in  the  mercy  shown, 
And  others  it  did  not  please. 

Some  thanked  the  Lord  for  the  pardoned  man, 
And  some  were  to  scorn  inclined ; 
And  motherly  women  wiped  their  eyes, 
For  the  women's  hearts  are  kind. 

"  God  bless  our  Emperor,"  many  said ; 

But  others  began  to  frown, 

And  asked,  "  Will  he  turn  this  wild  brigand 

Adrift  in  our  peaceful  town  ?  " 

220 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

No  word  of  thanks  did  the  bandit  say, 
But  he  raised  one  shining  fold 
Of  the  robe  imperial,  trailing  low 
With  its  weight  of  gems  and  gold* 

The  border  first  to  his  lips  he  pressed, 
And  then  to  his  heavy  heart ; 
Then  rose  and  waited  with  bended  head, 
Till  he  saw  them  all  depart. 

No  eye  had  he  for  the  gorgeous  train, 
As  along  the  square  it  passed ; 
One  stately  presence  was  all  he  knew, 
And  he  watched  it  till  the  last. 

A  heavy  sigh,  and  he  turned  away, 
But  with  slow  and  weary  tread ; 
No  rest  as  yet  on  the  earth  for  him, 
Not  even  among  the  dead. 

He  lived,  and  he  bore  his  burden  still, 
But  the  dumb  despair  had  ceased : 
That  word  of  mercy  had  brought  a  change, 
And  he  now  had  tears,  at  least ; 

22J 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

He  now  could  pray,  though  it  brought  not  light, 
And  he  seemed  to  ask  in  vain, 
And  his  prayer  had  more  of  tears  than  words, 
But  it  helped  him  bear  the  pain. 

And  oft  in  church  did  they  see  him  kneel 
In  some  corner  all  alone, 
And  weep  till  the  great  hot  drops  would  fall 
On  the  floor  of  varied  stone. 

And  children  clung  to  their  mothers'  hand, 
When  they  saw  that  vision  wild,  - 
That  haggard  face,  and  that  wasting  form, 
And  those  lips  that  never  smiled. 

But  grief  was  wearing  his  life  away, 
And  for  him  perhaps  *t  was  well ; 
It  was  not  long  on  the  city  street 
That  his  saddening  shadow  fell. 

A  fever  slowly  within  him  burned, 

Till  the  springs  of  life  were  dry, 

And  glad  he  was  when  they  laid  him  down 

On  a  hospital  bed  to  die, 

222 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

His  heart  was  broken,  his  strength  was  gone, 
He  had  no  more  wish  to  live ; 
He  almost  hoped  that  the  Lord  on  high, 
Like  the  Emperor,  might  forgive; 

That  somewhere  down  in  the  peaceful  earth 
He  should  find  a  refuge  yet, 
A  place  to  rest  and  his  eyes  to  close, 
And  the  woful  past  forget. 

He  could  not  lie  where  the  others  lay, 
For  such  gloom  around  him  spread, 
That  soon  in  a  chamber  far  away 
Had  they  set  his  friendless  bed* 

'T  was  there  he  suffered  and  wept  and  prayed, 
From  the  eyes  of  all  concealed : 
Alas !  but  it  takes  a  weary  time 
For  a  life  like  his  to  yield. 

The  grand  old  hospital  where  he  died 
Was  beneath  the  watchful  care 
Of  a  certain  doctor,  famed  afar 
For  his  skill  and  learning  rare. 

223 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

But  more  than  learning  and  more  than  skill 
Was  his  heart,  so  large  and  kind, 
That  knew  the  trouble  and  felt  the  needs 
Of  the  sick  who  near  him  pined. 

With  conscience  pure  had  he  served  the  Lord 
From  youth  till  his  hair  was  grey, 
Yet  only  pity  he  felt,  not  scorn, 
For  the  many  feet  that  stray. 

In  troubled  scenes  had  his  life  been  passed ; 
He  was  used  to  woe  and  sin, 
And  when  men  suffered  he  did  not  ask 
If  their  lives  had  blameless  been* 

His  part  was  but  to  relieve  their  pain, 
And  he  helped  and  soothed  and  cheered ; 
But  most  he  cared  for  the  stricken  man 
Whom  the  others  shunned  and  feared. 

Each  art  to  save  him  he  tried  in  vain, 
And  it  could  but  useless  prove, 
For  the  poisoned  thorn  that  pierced  his  heart 
Could  no  earthly  hand  remove, 

224 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

When  hope  had  failed,  he  would  kneel  and  pray, 
And  his  heart  with  tears  outpour, 
That  God  in  mercy  would  comfort  send 
To  that  soul  in  torment  sore. 

And  though  the  burden  he  might  not  lift, 
He  could  help  its  weight  to  bear ; 
He  talked  of  mercy,  of  peace  to  come, 
And  he  bade  him  not  despair. 

And  so,  on  the  last  sad  night  of  all, 
*T  was  the  brave,  good  doctor  came 
To  watch  alone  by  the  bandit's  side, 
When  he  died  of  grief  and  shame. 

The  spring  to  summer  was  wearing  on, 
'T  was  the  fairest  night  in  May, 
When  sleep  to  those  eyes  in  mercy  came, 
And  the  deadly  strain  gave  way. 

No  candle  burned,  for  the  moon  was  full, 
And  the  peaceful  splendour  fell 
Through  the  open  window,  lighting  all : 
It  was  like  a  kind  farewell. 

15  225 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  scents  from  the  garden  floated  in, 

And  the  silent  fireflies  came, 

And  breathed  and  vanished,  and  breathed  again, 

With  their  soft  mysterious  flame. 

The  doctor  watched  with  a  heavy  heart, 
His  head  on  his  hand  was  bowed ; 
He  thought  how  many  his  prayers  had  been, 
But  they  could  not  lift  the  cloud* 

T  was  over  now,  there  was  nothing  left 
For  his  pitying  love  to  do ; 
The  worn-out  body  would  rest  at  last, 
But  the  guilty  soul,  —  who  knew  ? 

No  more  to  do  but  to  watch  and  wait 
Till  the  failing  breath  should  cease ; 
He  longed,  as  the  counted  minutes  flew, 
For  one  parting  smile  of  peace. 

He  looked :  a  handkerchief  veiled  the  eyes, 
For  they  wept  until  the  end, 
And  sadly  still  on  the  wasted  cheek 
Did  a  few  slow  drops  descend* 

226 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

The  peace  that  oft  to  the  dying  comes 
Was  to  him  as  yet  denied,  - 
No  sunset  clear  after  stormy  day, 
And  no  brightening  ere  he  died. 

"  Alas !  he  will  go  away  to-night, 
And  without  one  hopeful  sign, 
Away  from  pity,  away  from  care, 
And  from  such  poor  help  as  mine ! " 

The  doctor  sighed,  but  he  hoped  as  well, 
For  he  said,  "  It  cannot  be 
That  the  Lord,  who  died  for  all,  will  have 
No  mercy  for  such  as  he/* 

T  was  then  that  sleep  on  the  doctor  fell, 
And  before  him  stood  revealed, 
In  dreaming  vision,  a  wondrous  sight, 
From  his  waking  eyes  concealed. 

For  other  watchers  were  in  the  room, 
And  he  knew  the  ghastly  throng 
Of  demon  spirits,  the  very  same 
Whom  the  man  had  served  so  long. 

227 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  two  were  leaning  across  the  bed, 
And  another  pressed  behind, 
And  some  in  the  shadow  waiting  stood, 
With  a  chain  his  soul  to  bind. 

But  angels  watched  by  the  bedside  too ; 
'T  was  a  strange  and  solemn  scene,  - 
The  angels  here  and  the  demons  there, 
And  the  dying  man  between. 

The  angels  looked  with  a  troubled  gaze 
On  the  face  consumed  with  grief, 
And  over  the  pillow  bent  and  swayed, 
As  in  haste  to  bring  relief. 

And  one  on  the  bowed  and  burdened  head 
Did  a  hand  in  blessing  lay, 
And  he  said,  "  Poor  soul,  come  home  with  us, 
Where  the  tears  are  wiped  away/* 

"  Not  so,"  cried  one  of  the  demon  troop, 
"  He  is  black  with  every  sin ; 
And  you  may  not  touch  our  lawful  prey 
That  we  laboured  years  to  win. 

228 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

"  We  bought  his  soul,  and  the  price  we  paid, 
And  our  part  has  well  been  done ; 
We  helped  him  ever  from  crime  to  crime, 
Till  his  buried  wealth  was  won ; 

"  And  we  almost  thought  him  one  of  us, 
He  had  so  well  learned  our  ways; 
So  go,  for  we  do  but  seek  our  own, 
And  be  done  with  these  delays." 

The  angel  said,  "  He  has  wept  his  sin, 
As  none  ever  wept  before, 
Has  mourned  till  his  very  life  gave  way, 
And  what  could  a  man  do  more  ? 

"  And  our  Blessed  Lord,  who  pities  all, 
And  the  sins  of  all  has  borne, 
Will  never  His  mercy  turn  away 
From  a  heart  so  bruised  and  torn." 

"  But  how  ?  and  shall  mercy  be  for  him 
Who  has  mercy  never  shown  ? 
Can  his  sorrow  bring  the  dead  to  life, 
Or  can  tears  for  blood  atone  ? 

229 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

"  Is  he  to  rest  with  the  angels  now, 
Has  he  done  with  tears  and  pain  ? 
To-morrow  morn  he  will  wish  he  lay 
On  the  hospital  bed  again ; 

44  There  is  somewhat  more  to  weep  for  down 
In  the  place  where  he  must  stay !  " 
The  demon  looked  at  his  fiendish  mates; 
And  he  laughed,  and  so  did  they. 

And  they  gathered  close,  like  hungry  wolves, 
In  their  haste  to  rend  and  tear ; 
But  they  could  not  touch  the  helpless  head 
While  that  strong  white  hand  was  there. 

Then  out  of  the  shadow  one  came  forth, 
'T  was  a  demon  great  and  tall ; 
An  iron  balance  he  held  on  high, 
As  he  stood  before  them  all. 

And  fiercely  he  to  the  angels  called, 
44  Do  you  dare  to  claim  him  still  ? 
Then  come,  for  the  scales  are  in  my  hand, 
We  will  weigh  the  good  and  ill," 

230 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

And  into  the  nearest  scale  he  threw, 
As  he  spoke,  a  parchment  roll, 
With  on  it  a  note  of  every  sin 
That  had  stained  the  parting  soul. 

'T  was  closely  written,  without,  within, 
And  the  balance  downward  flew 
And  struck  the  ground  with  a  blow,  as  though 
It  would  break  the  pavement  through. 

"  He  is  ours  forever,"  the  demons  said, 
44  If  justice  the  world  controls ; 
For  sins  so  heavy  do  on  him  lie, 
They  would  sink  a  hundred  souls  I 

"  Come,  hasten,  angels,  the  time  is  short, 
And  words  are  of  no  avail ; 
Come,  bring  the  note  of  your  friend's  good  deeds, 
To  lay  in  the  empty  scale." 

The  angels  searched,  but  they  searched  in  vain, 
There  was  no  good  deed  to  bring ; 
In  all  that  ever  that  hand  had  done, 
They  could  find  no  worthy  thing. 

231 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

A  taunting  shout  from  the  demons  broke, 
And  each  hard  malignant  face 
With  joy  and  triumph  was  all  aflame ; 
But  the  angels  held  their  place, 

Though  dimness  fell  like  a  passing  cloud 
On  their  pure  and  holy  light ; 
And  if  ever  angel  eyes  have  tears, 
There  were  some  in  theirs  that  night* 

But  he  who  had  been  the  first  to  speak, 
With  a  glimmering  hope  possessed, 
Still  sought  some  good  that  would  turn  the  scale, 
Though  it  seemed  a  useless  quest. 

He  saw  the  handkerchief  where  it  lay, 
And  he  raised  it  off  the  bed, 
All  wet  and  clinging,  and  steeped  in  tears 
That  the  dying  eyes  had  shed. 

He  turned  around,  but  his  face  was  pale, 
As  the  last  poor  chance  he  tried ; 
He  laid  it  down  in  the  empty  scale, 
And  he  said,  "  Let  God  decide ! " 

232 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

When,  lo !  it  fell  till  it  touched  the  earth, 
And  the  demons  stood  dismayed ; 
It  seemed  so  little  and  light  a  thing, 
But  it  all  his  sins  outweighed. 

But  who  shall  ever  the  anger  tell 
Of  that  black  and  hateful  band, 
When  most  in  triumph  they  felt  secure, 
The  prey  had  escaped  their  hand. 

They  stood  one  moment  in  speechless  rage, 
And  then,  with  a  fearful  sound 
Of  shrieks  and  curses  and  rattling  chains, 
They  vanished  beneath  the  ground. 

Then  holy  peace  on  the  chamber  fell, 

Till  it  flooded  all  the  air ; 

The  angels  praised  and  they  thanked  the  Lord, 

Who  so  late  had  heard  their  prayer. 

And  their  clouded  glory  shone  again, 

With  a  clear  celestial  ray, 

As  the  trembling  soul,  which  that  moment  passed, 

They  bore  in  their  arms  away. 

233 


THE  TEARS  OF  REPENTANCE 

Then  through  the  room,  as  they  took  their  flight, 
Did  a  flood  of  music  stream, 
So  loud,  so  sweet,  and  so  close  at  hand, 
That  it  waked  him  from  his  dream. 

He  looked  around ;  there  was  nothing  stirred 
In  the  empty,  moonlit  room, 
Where  a  faint,  sweet  odour  filled  the  air 
From  the  orange-trees  in  bloom. 

And  the  notes  divine  he  had  thought  to  hear 
Were  only  the  liquid  flow 
Of  a  nightingale's  song,  that  came  up  clear 
From  the  garden  just  below. 

Then  up  from  his  seat  the  doctor  rose, 
And  he  stood  beside  the  bed ; 
He  knew,  when  he  touched  the  quiet  hand, 
That  the  poor  brigand  was  dead. 

The  handkerchief  on  the  pillow  lay, 
But  its  weary  use  was  o'er, 
And  he  raised  it,  heavy  and  wet  with  tears, 
From  the  eyes  that  could  weep  no  more. 


«L  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000122769     3 


